Dog Eat Dog
by silver ruffian
Summary: After a hunt gone south, Dean Winchester discovers that he is the human half of the Trickster God Coyote.
1. Chapter 1 Better Living Thru Chemistry

Rating: PG-13 (Gen)

Characters: Dean and Sam Winchester, John Winchester, Bobby Singer, The Trickster from Tall Tales, the Ilimu, Various civilians and fug lies (no pairings)

Warnings: harsh language, weirdness, animal and human violence, Dean whumping, Sam comfort and so much angst Stevie Wonder could see it.

Timeline: immediately after Tall Tales

Disclaimer: I don't own Supernatural and the boys. If I did I sure as hell wouldn't be working this day job. Yeah, I said it.

Spoilers (so far): In My Time of Dying, Born Under a Bad Sign, Tall Tales

Summary: Dean changes after a botched hunt; the boys deal with it.

Author's Notes: I plan on posting more on Friday if you like this. So please review! I'm very interested in what you think about this story.

**Dog Eat Dog**

**By Silver Ruffian**

** 2007**

**Chapter 1 Better Living Thru Chemistry**

"... down in the sewer..." the tall cop was saying. Dean was having a truly hard time paying attention, but that was okay, he didn't mind.

He didn't mind a lot of things right now.

His wrists and ankles were strapped down to the armrests and chair legs with leather restraints. Another, wider strap fit snugly over his chest. Dean stared at the fingers of his right hand. His fingers were moving, twitching a little. His head was tilted to one side, and he was fascinated with the after-image. Each time his finger twitched the finger separated into five different images. It was as though each image was trying to catch up with each other. When he stopped moving, there was one finger. When he moved, one became five.

He tried not to laugh, but he couldn't help himself.

"….FBI database…. suspect…St. Louis…buried…." the cop droned on and on and on. He reminded Dean of his home room teacher in eighth grade. Dude was a sleeping pill with legs. "…and well, you know the rest...found lying on top of him... emptied the clip ...silver ammo..."

The two talking heads turned and stared at him, but Dean didn't care. He was flying, floating. He hadn't felt this good, this light, this..high, since...well, since _never_.

Dean didn't even notice when the tall cop left the room.

"You look like you have _some_ breeding." Talking head number one _might _have been a woman. He couldn't tell. Silver hair, nose tilted up, thin cruel lips. She reached out and carded his short dark blond hair with her fingers. Her cold blue eyes bored into his hazy green ones. The drugs had taken the edge off so much Dean didn't even flinch when her hand came near his face.

He smiled lazily. He was feeling no pain anywhere any more, didn't even mind the injection in his right bicep, which was something because he _hated_ needles.

Oh, but he had struggled and cursed like a madman _before_ the drugs took effect.

"Don't have any breeding," he mumbled softly, leaning into her hand. He closed his eyes. "I'm a mutt."

She pulled her hand away slowly. "Who do you work for?"

It took him a minute or so to realize that her hand was gone. Dean sat upright and wobbled a little when he did it.

"W-work...for...?" Dean looked puzzled. His body swayed slightly against the leather straps holding him in the chair.

"Yes. Did the Family hire you? Who is your employer?"

"Family business," Dean repeated with a wistful expression on his face. Talking head number one and number two exchanged significant glances. Dean cocked his head to one side, stared at the silver metal earrings talking head number one was wearing. So shiny. So…_pretty_.

"Do you have a partner? Are you working with someone?"

Dean's smile widened, proud and somewhat goofy. "Yep! Geek boy."

"Who?"

"Geek boy. He's...he's gonna come...get me outta here..." Dean's eyes narrowed as he looked around the room. Despite the warm glow from the drugs, he didn't like this place. "You guys like to hit too much." His eyes became distant, and he began to nod off. He jerked his head back up, blinking slowly. "Good drugs, though..."

The second talking head spoke for the first time. "What's your name?"

Eyes narrowed, head tilted slightly to one side, Dean stared down at his left hand. The fucker was up to something, he was sure of it. He had to watch it _very_ carefully.

The right hand was on the side of the angels. So dependable, so helpful. Always the first one in to stroke a woman's soft skin, pick up a glass of beer, curl up into a fist and knock the hell out of some fucker who deserved it. Could handle a pool cue like a mad sumbitch, too.

The left hand was the bad seed.

Demon spawn.

The second talking head leaned in closer.

"What is your name?"

"Huh?" Dean finally swung his head around, annoyed. So many distractions….

"Your name?"

Talking head number two put his hand on Dean's shoulder, and Dean wrinkled up his nose and drew back, frowning. No matter how much soap and water this dude used, he could never get _that_ hand clean. Dude needed a girlfriend in the worst way.

Or maybe his romance with his right hand was the reason he _didn't _have a girlfriend.

"Your name?" it repeated.

Dean wanted to bite him so badly his teeth hurt just thinking about it.

"Hec-tor..." Dean said slowly, carefully, shaking his head slightly to get the images and sounds of torn flesh, dark red blood and screaming out of his mind. The second talking head was the stupid one and Dean felt he had to say everything slowly to it so it would _understand_, dammit.

"Hector?"

"Hec-tor….A-fra-ma-zian."

Talking head number two frowned. "That can't _really_ be your name."

"It's not! I lied!" Dean announced brightly. He swayed a little in the chair. "I do that a lot. It's my job," he added solemnly, then scowled. "But I don't _have_ a job," he said slowly, bewildered, to no one in particular.

The two talking heads looked at each other, and Dean hoped they weren't going to hit him again. He was so tired of all these strange people, tired of being manhandled, hit, chased, and injected, even though he didn't mind the afterglow of the drugs.

He_ absolutely _didn't mind the afterglow of the drugs.

It took his mind off things. He forgot about the long claw marks down his back. He forgot about his sore ankle. And the goose egg on his forehead was a distant memory. He didn't know if it was the drugs or something else, but it was like something sleeping inside his head had been shaken awake. He looked at the talking heads and he could hear thumping sounds coming out of their chests. There was this shushing sound along with the thumping. It was all very familiar, he just couldn't remember where he'd heard it before.

Right now, he wanted Sam. Or John. Or Cassie. He wanted his mother, Mary. He wanted to see the Impala again, too. He just wanted to leave, get away from this place.

He watched the two talking heads drift away, out of the room.

"Buh Bye." Did he say that out loud? He couldn't remember. Oh, well.

When the door closed behind them he felt his eyelids get heavy. Without something to focus his attention on the drugs were convincing his brain that it was time to zone out and just enjoy the moment. Just sit your happy ass there and just _be_, dude. He was trying to do just that when someone came around from behind and kneeled next to the chair. The scent was warm and friendly, but worried. It was dorky, and vaguely irritating. Very familiar. He couldn't understand how he knew all of that, but he did.

"Dean?"

Dean swayed slightly from side to side. It took an effort for him to focus, then he saw who it was and grinned widely.

"Hi, Sammy!" Way too loud.

Sam flinched and put his big hand over Dean's mouth. "Say it louder, dude, I don't think everyone heard you."

Dean's answer, "Okay", was muffled underneath Sam's hand.

What the fuck?

Dean's chest expanded as he took a deep breath and Sam quickly took his hand off his brother's mouth and pinched Dean's nose shut with his thumb and forefinger. Dean gave a muffled squawk as the air huffed out of his lungs and he was forced to breathe thru his mouth.

Sam removed his hand slowly from Dean's nose. Dean looked at him wide eyed, blinked slowly several times and seemed to immediately forget about what Sam had done. Instead of cursing like a sailor, he sat there with this lazy half smile on his face and stared at Sam like he was very, very, _very_ glad to see him.

Sam was feeling creeped out, concerned and relieved, all at the same time. He sounded angrier than he really felt. "What the _hell_ is wrong with you, Dean?" Sam hissed.

"Nothing," Dean replied indignantly. He tossed his head to one side. "I'll have you know I am feeling absolutely no pain." He giggled. "It's nice."

Yep, it was the Apocalypse, all right. The End of Days. Dean Winchester just... _giggled_.

Sam stared at him, open mouthed. He grabbed his brother by the chin and stared into his glassy green eyes. "They gave you drugs."

"Yep! I got the good ones." Dean said smugly.

Sam closed his mouth with a snap. He put his hand on his brother's shoulder. "I'm sorry, man, I came as soon as I could."

"No prob, Bob," Dean chirped. "If you had come any sooner I wouldn't have gotten the drugs."

"We have to leave. _Now_."

"Oh-kay," Dean said in a sing-song voice.

"Dean?"

"Huh?"

"We've got to get to the Impala. You remember the Impala?"

Dean grinned and nodded. "That's my baby," he breathed.

"Yeah, she is. Now you have to be quiet, or we can't go. Can you be quiet?"

"Yeah. Okay! Sssssh..." Dean tried to put one finger to his lips but he couldn't because his arms were still strapped down. It was that damned left hand's fault again, he just knew it.

"Right." Sam shook his head, stood up and moved behind him. He had just unbuckled the strap around Dean's chest when he glanced down. The spit in Sam's mouth dried up instantly and his heart thumped painfully against his ribcage as he noticed the long clawmarks on Dean's back. Straight thru his black fatigue jacket, thru his denim overshirt and past the t shirt underneath, right into his skin. Then Sam looked at Dean and froze.

Dean sat there, head cocked slightly to one side, staring intently at the far corner. Sam could see over there. The corner was empty.

_There was nothing there._

Eyes narrowed, Dean stared at the corner and growled, deep in his throat.

_Oh, shit._

It's the drugs, Sam thought. Please Lord, please let it be the drugs they gave him. Dean's imagining he's a hyped up German shepherd or something. Because if it wasn't the drugs they were in deep, deep shit, and Sam could hear Dean now: "The idea of going tripod every time I have to take a leak just doesn't appeal to me, Sammy. I can't live as one of the things I hunt."

Sam was frozen for a moment. Hell, he couldn't just leave Dean here. He wouldn't. Dean could go full-on furry and Sam would still try to get him out, if he had to put one of the straps around his neck like a leash and lead him out like that. Or hogtie him, knock him out, something. Leaving Dean behind so these bastards could drug him and beat him or do God knows what else to him just wasn't an option.

"Dean?" Dam put his hand on Dean's shoulder and tightened his grip. Dean's shoulder muscles were tight and Sam could feel the growl Dean was making vibrate up his arm, thru his fingers. His somewhat shaky fingers, as Sam tightened his grip even more, tried to rouse his brother out of this spell or trance or whatever the fuck this was.

"Dean?" Another shake to the shoulder, harder, firmer this time.

Dean blinked slowly and a shudder ran thru his entire body. He seemed confused when he looked up at Sam. "You gonna unstrap me any time soon, geek boy, 'cause I sure as hell don't wanna spend the night here," Dean said tiredly. The paleness of his skin highlighted the spray of freckles across his nose.

"Dean, what were you looking at?"

"Wha-what? When?"

"Just now."

He shrugged. "Don't know." His eyes blinked open and closed a few times and he smiled a little. "Good drugs." Dean suddenly went shifty-eyed as Sam continued to undo the straps. "You're not gonna hit me, are you?"

"Hit you? Why would I hit you?"

"I get that a lot lately," Dean mumbled. He pouted, and then squinted up at Sam. "My head hurts again."

"I'll bet." Sam pulled the restraints away from Dean's arms and chest, leaned down and draped Dean's right arm over his shoulder. "Come on, princess. Let's roll."

-:-

_The Ilimu were intrigued, to say the least. They could've swarmed the boy, easily, brought him to his knees and pushed past his skin and defenses with little resistance, but…_

_But the other one, the green eyed one…_

_He saw them._

_Looked right at them, and dared them to come any closer._

_There was more to this one that met the eye. They'd scratched the surface, so to speak, and what was inside this human male looked out at the world for the first time in a hundred years. They sensed strength and confusion. This one would fight to the death to defend the younger one, but for all their brutality an all out fight didn't appeal to them. The Ilimu hunted. Seducing its prey to a secluded location, using shapeshifting and cunning and subtlety, herding the prey, making it go where and when they wanted it to go, that was all part of it. They enjoyed prolonging the agony. They killed without mercy, without hesitation, but there was an art to it._

_So they waited. They were patient. They enjoyed the idea of a chase, and for all his special abilities they could tell that the younger one couldn't see them. He was nervous and wanted to take his brother and run._

_So they let him. It had been a while since they'd had a good chase and even monsters get bored. _

_They could tell these two would be well worth the effort. They had their scents, and something more: the older brother's skin and blood. Just a touch, but it was more than enough. It would be put to good use. A good chase was something to savor, made the outcome all that much sweeter. There was no doubt of it, they would overtake both brothers. Separate them from each other, and bring them down._

_Bring them down screaming. _


	2. Chapter 2 FUBAR

I want to thank each and every one of you guys for your kind reviews and encouragement!

WHEEEEEE!!

Okay, now that I've gotten_ that _out of my system, here's a chapter that will give some explanation where the boys are and how they got into this mess in the first place. I will post the third chapter next week, in which we get back to the basics – more Drugged!Dean, Sam!Comfort, weirdness, angst and escalating violence.

And now a word about the Ilimu. I did not create them, but I _am_ going to put them to good use. They're demons specializing in animal possession. Did you ever see that movie _The Ghost and the Darkness_, with Michael Douglas and Val Kilmer? The two lions in that movie (which was a true story) were suspected of being supernatural; they killed nearly 130 people in two months over in Uganda back in the 1800s. Just the sort of bad asses I'd like to see Sam and Dean go up against.

Disclaimer: Don't own them, darn it!

**Dog Eat Dog**

**Chapter 2: FUBAR**

**McCoy, Indiana**

**Early That Same Night:**

I

Dean knew he was in deep shit the second he turned around and the damn thing body slammed him into the wall. He managed to hold onto his pistol, but his spare flashlight flew out of his hand on impact. A long stripe of white hot pain sliced down his chest, but that pain was swallowed up by even greater pain all over his body as he hit the wall hard enough to crack the surface and dust and dirt flew everywhere. _Move or you're dead, motherfucker,_ Dean told himself frantically, and he tucked and rolled onto his side, squeezed off three shots in quick succession. Black spots formed on the edge of his vision, and his entire body ached like a son of a bitch. The thing leaped back into the shadows, and Dean backpedaled against the wall, holding the .45 out in front of him, sweeping the area with the gun.

After having been shot several times so far this evening, it had a healthy respect for guns, at least.

He ran his fingers over the front of his t shirt, and he absolutely didn't like the way his fingers shook when he raised his hand up in front of his face. A grimy yellow work lamp set in a small wire cage in the wall about eight feet above Dean's head was the only illumination. Beyond that was deep shadow, broken only by the occasional flash of glowing red eyes and snapping yellow teeth.

No blood on his fingers, but the sumbitch had scratched him. Marked him. It was fucking with him. This thing was fast…made that wendigo look like it was moving in slow motion. It could have gutted him, but instead it just scratched him down the front of his shirt.

_Tag, you're it, boy. _

There was always the chance that he wouldn't come back from a hunt, that he'd die in some godforsaken place, dark and alone, but he'd decided long ago that if (when?) it happened, he was going to make the motherfuckers work for it. He was having a hard time breathing, and Dean realized that he was right on the edge of panic just then. So he forced air into his trembling, aching lungs, willed his arms and legs to stop shaking_. I'm Dean Winchester, damn it. My dad taught me the family business, and I learned it well. I hunt and kill you sumbitches, and you're next. _He could hear the soft stealthy tic tic of claws on concrete as the thing paced back and forth in the shadows just beyond, and when the thing growled at him he smirked at it, which only made the fucker growl again.

The grin on his face was feral and slightly crazed as he tracked the noises coming from the shadows with the gun, and the grin was obviously pissing the thing off, because it growled as it paced back and forth. Sounded like it was cussing. Sounded like it was annoyed.

Good.

Ten feet away there was an access tunnel that led to street level. Through the manhole cover he saw lights in the darkness above him, heard traffic moving back and forth. Might as well have been a million miles away, though. Dean felt totally winded after running thru what seemed like miles of tunnels, slightly sick to his stomach from the smell down there, and as for out and out running, _hell no. _He put his back to the wall and tried to stand up. His right ankle protested the idea and he decided to sit his ass down again. He'd broken the damn thing, or sprained it at least.

So, shagging ass, whether running, or hobbling, was out of the question.

_Figures_, he thought to himself, grimacing at the stench. _This bastard couldn't live in a nice sunlit park, with trees and grass. _

_It had to be the damn sewer. _

He slipped his left hand into his jacket pocket and dug out his cell phone. The thing growled at him from the shadows, probably thinking that he was going to pull out another gun. Dean wished. He had a couple of clips for the .45 in his pocket. Silver ammo. That was it.

One glance at the screen and he snapped the phone shut and jammed it back into his pocket with a disgusted snort. Not in service. So what else was fucking new? So far, on this gig, luck was in pretty short supply.

His life expectancy could be measured by the number of rounds in each clip, which was something he did not want to think about. Earlier this evening he could've selected one of the Sidewinder automatic assault rifles as a weapon of choice, but for some reason he'd decided against it, and he didn't know why. He wasn't normally this…sloppy. Rarely fucked up on a job like this, even when he was a kid, just starting out. Since his Dad died, though, there were times when he wondered how it would be just to let oblivion overtake him. He'd cheated death once before, and the second time was definitely _his_ time, until John Winchester made a deal with the same yellow eyed bastard that murdered Dean's mother over twenty two years ago. Traded himself, so that Dean would live.

And despite the bravado and the swagger, the smartass attitude and the snarkiness, Dean felt worthless. It was a piss poor trade. He wasn't worth that kind of sacrifice. Sammy was the only reason he'd held on for this long anyway, so if Dean was subconsciously setting himself up for suicide by fugly, that was something he did _not_ want to think about.

He did wonder why the thing wasn't down for the count already. Silver was usually a pretty reliable remedy for shapeshifters, black dogs and other critters. Fido should have been taking a dirt nap down on the pavement, sizzling, burning up from the inside out, and despite having been shot several times with silver loads it seemed to be just as frisky as a day old pup.

Now_ that_ was something he _had_ to think about.

His ankle holster was empty–apparently he'd lost that gun when he went airborne the first time. He couldn't see it on the floor anywhere, so it must've slid into the darkness. If he got tired of living he could just get up and limp over into the shadows and try to find it.

The only bright spot so far in this whole fucking mess was that Dean knew Sam was _behind_ him and the thing in the tunnels. Sam had the rest of the gear, and was also more heavily armed. Dean had insisted on drawing the thing's attention, which came under the heading of It Seemed Like A Good Idea At The Time. It was a stupid move, a cowboy move, a thoroughly crazy, dumbass move, but he had to put himself between Sam and the fugly. He wasn't about to let Sammy take point. If Dean didn't survive he planned on telling Saint Peter just that. He only hoped that Sammy wasn't standing alongside him at the Pearly Gates if and when he did it.

With any luck the woolly bully would concentrate on Dean while little brother snuck up from behind and blasted the son of a bitch. Dean had annoyed the thing by shooting it several times, and by now it was thoroughly pissed off at him and absolutely dedicated to killing his ass several times over.

Dean knew he sometimes had that effect on _people, _too.

Something large dark and furry moved low and fast right at him from an angle on his left. He didn't even have time to squeeze off a shot. He went flying thru the air again, bounced off a far wall and when he landed this time he couldn't keep a grip on his pistol. It went sliding across the concrete in the opposite direction. Something picked him up by the jacket collar and face planted him into the pavement. White pain filled his field of vision, and then he was flipped over onto his back.

The better to see it coming.

This thing liked to play with its food first.

It straddled him, grinning like a maniac, its hind feet on either side of his hips, pinning his arms up over his head with its massive paws. Bastard even leaned down on top of him, using its weight to keep him pinned down. Dean stared up at it, looking bug-eyed and grim at the same time. He breathed rapidly, in short, sharp bursts, trying hard not to hyperventilate, and his heart thundered in his chest from the adrenaline rush. When it leaned down thick yellow drool dripped from its mouth, and he grimaced as he quickly turned his head so he wouldn't get a face full of critter spit. He could feel it drip, warm and foul-smelling, down the side of his neck. Its breath was absolutely foul, a slaughterhouse, with just a hint of sulfur underneath.

_Son of a bitch --_

_No, you did not spit that foul shit on me. Choke on it, you fucker_, Dean thought, and brought his left knee up hard in the space between its legs. His knee thudded up against a pair of balls and a dick that was thick and massive. _Is that a fire hose you've got there or are you just glad to see me?_

It made a high, thin sound like an overheated tea kettle and its eyes bulged. Its lips formed a perfect round O, a comical expression on its face despite all those sharp jagged teeth and large red slanted eyes. It reared back, and howled, its snout pointed towards the grey cement ceiling. It grabbed its bruised balls with both hands.

Dean flipped himself back over on his stomach, and he lunged sideways, scrambling madly on his hands and knees for the .45 that lay on the gray cement a few feet away. The rough concrete shredded his palms, tore the knees out of his jeans, but getting to that pistol was the focus of his world right then. Fido growled deep in its throat, apparently resenting the fact that Dean was trying to bail the festivities. Uncooperative chew toys are a bitch to deal with.

Claws raked down the back of his black jacket, white hot stripes of agony painted down his back, his calf. It dug its claws in around his already sore ankle and Dean bit back a scream at the sudden pain, but the pain seemed to lessen as his fingers curled around the butt of the gun. The crosshatching on the grip was welcome and familiar underneath his fingertips. He was ready to go to work with the pistol when he saw something that made his green eyes go wide with shock.

Another pair of eyes, reddish gold, hung there in the darkness, a few feet away, staring right at him. He could almost pick out the outline of the damn thing as it crouched there, the way the fur stuck up around its hunched up shoulders.

Dean had time to think - - _Motherfuck it,_ _there are two of these sons of bitches_ – and he raised the pistol and squeezed off four shots in quick succession. Those eyes closed with a snap and the thing jerked away sideways. It yipped, a high pitched sound full of pain and surprise, but the other one growled and dug its claws in even further, and that time Dean let out a bellow of pain that was so loud it made his ears ring. Fido yanked him backwards and he had enough presence of mind to hold his fire as it dragged him back and flipped him over. Once he was on his back all bets were off. The pull of his finger on the trigger and the feel of the .45 bucking in his hand was comforting somehow. _I've got something for your ass, you mother._ The pain from his back, leg and ankle was a bright flare of agony that filled the world.

Two handed death grip on the pistol and the critter was growling and snarling at him and Dean was cursing, screaming some pretty inventive and colorful obscenities right back at the bastard, and he was completely unaware he was doing it. All he could hear was the thunder of his heart, his own ragged breathing booming in his chest, and the beast's rumbling growls and high-pitched snarls. He could also hear the other one as it moaned and flailed about in the darkness behind him, but he could only hope that it was down for the count and would stay the fuck down.

Fido leaned in and knocked the gun away. It made a fist with the other ham-sized paw and slugged him in the face.

Stars exploded, galaxies went super nova inside Dean's head, and his last conscious thought was, _Sammy, NOW would be a good time to show up, bro'..._

Everything was turning white, and the last thing he remembered was that massive shaggy head coming down at him, mouth stretched wide open, and all those god awful teeth...

II

The first thing that echoed thru the fog was the sound of voices, then traffic noises, leather creaking, and radio static. His eyelids were heavy. It was hard to lift his head, much less open his eyes, but his nose worked just fine, without much effort on his part, and his nose happily informed him that they were out of the sewer. Dean was breathing in relatively clean night air, and frankly, after what he'd gone thru he was grateful to be breathing, period. The white fog in his brain was taking its own sweet time lifting, but he managed to lift his head up and after blinking slowly, could see blurred shapes moving around him, and as his vision cleared up he realized he was standing in the street looking at a swarm of cops carrying guns.

Big guns.

The cavalry had arrived, and as much as he disliked cops (and small town cops in particular) Dean was actually glad to see them. Now all he wanted to do was find Sam and get the hell out of Dodge.

Dean realized that he was standing, well, no, really,_ leaning_ between two deputies. They had their hands on his shoulders holding him upright, and at first it was easy to mistake that gesture for care and concern. His ankle still hurt like hell, and he shifted his weight to his good leg.

He opened up his mouth to say something, then he remembered what town he was in and why he was there but the clincher, the thing that made him hesitate, was the realization that he was wearing handcuffs. Handcuffs were a part of the gear in the trunk of the Impala, but he hadn't brought them with him and there was no reason he should be standing there with his hands cuffed behind his back. Last time he checked, that was not standard police procedure for would-be murder victims.

It was however, SOP for suspects.

And police set-ups.

He opened his mouth. "Officer, Thank God you've come," morphed into "Is there a problem, officers?"

As soon as he said it, one of the deputies at his side swung around and slugged him in the face with his flashlight.

Dean didn't lose consciousness all the way. His head rocked back, and the world faded away to a background whisper. He sank to his knees and then felt them roughly lift him up by his arms and shoulders. He stumbled, hissing with pain as the toe of his injured foot caught on the rough pavement.

They half carried, half-lifted him over to the squad car. None of that "watch your head" bullshit, either. He was unceremoniously dumped in the backseat cage like a sack of laundry and the sound of the car door slamming shut sounded kind of final even to Dean's addled mind.

Dean stared out the side window at the passers-by who'd stopped to gawk at the proceedings, and as they were being shooed away by the cops he saw Sam standing there on the sidewalk. Big tall shaggy haired Sammy had the hood of his blue sweatshirt up, and he had combed his hair back from his forehead. It wasn't much of a disguise, but apparently it was working, because if they were looking for him, none of the cops recognized him.

Sam stared at the police car with a determined look in his big puppy dog eyes, memorizing the plate numbers and everything else about the car, and right then and there Dean decided that he was the most beautiful, the most welcome thing he'd seen that entire night.

He had the guns and the gear stowed away in the duffel bag on his shoulder, and for all the world he looked like some big gangly white bread college student on his way home after cracking the books at the library. Dean almost laughed out loud at the sight of him, but then the pain in his head thumped even harder at both temples, just to get his attention. He fell back against the seat, groaning, his vision fading, and his brain said,_ excuse me, you careless fucker, but I was just clubbed with a cop's flashlight, right after that damn critter got his licks in, so I think I'll pass out all the way again, and guess what? You're coming with me._

So Dean did.

III

When he saw Dean being loaded into the back of the squad car Sam felt like taking the assault rifle out of the duffel and making his displeasure known. He knew that sort of crap was liable to get them both killed, so he gritted his teeth and began memorizing every detail of the car. He stared at the cops riding with Dean, noted by the name tags that one was named Perkins and the other MacArthur. He watched the car pull away and he was pretty sure that Dean saw him, too.

He told himself to take deep breaths. Calm down. Calm down. Dean was okay, looked a little bruised and roughed up around the edges, but he was alive and breathing.

Which was more than he could say for the critter. It was dead. Down in the sewer; Sam hid in the foul smelling darkness and personally saw four of the cops wrestle the damned thing's carcass into a body bag and then hoist it up into the street. The cops didn't seem too horrified or upset at the sight of a seven foot tall beastie with red eyes and all those teeth, and they treated the corpse with respect, as if it were a visiting dignitary, or a celebrity. When they got topside they loaded it into a waiting ambulance. Sam knew Dean's handiwork when he saw it, and he also realized that Dean alive was getting rougher treatment from the cops than the dead woolly bully was getting.

The paramedics were attending to a tall thin man with shoulder length white hair. The gray blanket wrapped around him was spotted with blood as were the bandages on his head and shoulder. He got into the ambulance with the critter, and sat there staring sadly at the body as the doors closed and the ambulance pulled away.

It was, truly, a What The Fuck moment.

Sam knew all he had to do was find out where they were taking Dean, get there, and get him out. Since it was highly unlikely that someone was going to announce where they'd taken him, Sam would have to get creative.

He glanced around, and finally settled on a group of EMTs. They were blocking the sidewalk so Sam squeezed past, mumbling "Sorry." He got dirty looks from several of them, but Sam was past so quickly they didn't notice that his long talented fingers had palmed a radio.

Sam made himself walk around the corner and once he was out of sight he jumped over some hedges and hauled ass down the alley, long legs pumping. He didn't stop until he was well away from the scene. He knew the Impala was about a block away.

He had the radio tucked underneath his jacket.

Sam thumbed the receiver and deepened his voice.

"Dispatch."

"Dispatch, go ahead."

"Yeah, this is Napier from the seventh. I'm trying to track down Perkins in car 67. We had a report that the perp from the sewer needed medical treatment, and one of the civilian witnesses is out here bitching about police brutality. Damn fool won't shut up until I tell him something. Did they take the perp to the station house, over?"

"Negatory on the ambulance, Officer Napier. Special delivery to the mayor's house. Over."

_Thanks, jackass._

He needed to find out the mayor's address, quick, fast and in a hurry.

Sam pitched the radio into a nearby dumpster and ran like hell for the Impala.


	3. Chapter 3 The Rule of Tooth and Claw

Thanks to DarkMind1 and heather03nmg for making me feel guilty about making you guys wait a whole 'nother week for this chapter. Okay, I caved. Here it is!

Chapter 4 will be up Saturday. It gets worse for the brothers, I promise.

I LOVE YOU GUYS!

Spoilers this Chapter: Faith, Tall Tales, Born Under a Bad Sign, In My Time of Dying, Devil's Trap

This chapter also features angst, the return of Drugged!Dean (or HurtDean, if you prefer) and plenty of Sam!Comfort.

Enjoy!

Disclaimer: Don't own 'em, darn it! (Yeah, I know, but I gotta keep saying it!)

**Dog Eat Dog 3/13**

**Chapter 3: The Rule of Tooth and Claw**

Sam drove. He observed traffic laws and speed laws until they hit the back highways, and then he drove like a bat out of hell.

Travel light, travel fast – that was a fact that John Winchester had drilled into his boys ever since they were old enough to understand the words. It was a philosophy that Sam grew to hate when he got older, but since he'd gone back on the road with Dean Sam had to admit he saw the wisdom in it now.

They'd stepped in something back there in McCoy, Indiana. Being invited to leave town was the first clue, but that had happened so many times before, it wasn't something that exactly screamed out at you. Most places didn't want to acknowledge their claim to fame as "Spook Central", and they were strangers in town asking a lot of questions on top of that.

_You boys aren't our kind, move on._

Par for the course in their line of work.

But this…law enforcement and other first responders were in on it. McCoy, Indiana was a hell of a lot bigger than the dusty little one horse towns that typically made deals with fuglies. Newspaper and television coverage of the critter attacks were slanted in a way as to make the victims suspect, and therefore expendable. Dean being restrained and drugged at the mayor's house…Sam doubted they were going to turn Dean loose after that: _Sorry about the police brutality, son, and we're glad you enjoyed those drugs. Y'all come back now, y'hear?_

Winchesters don't run. Usually, things ran from them. But, there were a few times in life when a good retreat is about the smartest thing you can do. Dean's wounds needed to be looked after, that was the first thing. They needed to hole up, regroup, try to figure out exactly what the hell was going on. Right now Sam didn't trust motels. One of John Winchester's grateful wealthy clients maintained a farmhouse in a remote area in Illinois, just past the Indiana border. The place was fully stocked and both boys had keys to the front door and the combination to disable the alarm system. That was where they were headed. It was out of the way, and it was nowhere near McCoy, Indiana, and that suited Sam just fine.

Getting Dean to the Impala was slow going because of his injured ankle. His energy level had gone way down, which was good, because then at least he was quiet. He went limp against Sam, leaned his head against Sam's shoulder. It was a show of weakness that Dean ordinarily would have avoided like the plague. He hated appearing weak, in front of Sam, in front of anybody. Dean must have been hurting worse than he let on, because occasionally he would groan and whimper under his breath. He was probably reliving whatever had happened to him, and that made Sam feel worse than before. Dean was dead weight as Sam lowered him into the seat, tucked his legs in, strapped his seat belt around him. He sat slumped over on his side in an awkward sprawl, with his head against the top of the bench seat. Sitting in the Impala seemed to calm him, and he hadn't made a sound since.

Dark bruises were beginning to blossom on his face and neck, and his clothes looked like he'd just gone twelve rounds with Freddy Krueger. His t-shirt was ripped in the front, and his jacket and denim overshirt was ripped to hell in the back. A total loss. It was a damn good thing that Dean wasn't wearing his beloved leather jacket thru all this. As it was, when he finally woke up and came down from that drug-induced high, Dean wasn't gonna be too happy about any of this.

On the way out, if they had come across anyone, if Sam had seen those two people who were in the room with Dean, he would've killed them. Period. Either with his mind or with his bare hands, it didn't matter. He hated himself for the thought, but there it was. Sam could feel something stirring inside his head, something primitive. He wondered if this was the darkness inside him coming out, and what better way to bring it out by having some bastard hurt Dean. He'd lost too many people thru the years. First his Mom, then Jessica, then Dad months ago. No more. It stops. _Now._

_They're not gonna hurt you any more, bro', _he thought as he glanced at Dean for what seemed to be the umpteenth time. _Not tonight. Not ever. Damn it, I should have gotten to you sooner. Never should have let you take point down there in that damn motherfucking sewer…_

Dean laughed.

Sam took his eyes off the road long enough to glance at him.

"Sammy cussed….awesome." Dean muttered softly to himself. In the backwash from the Impala's headlights Dean looked young, almost younger than Sam.

The hair on the back of Sam's neck stood straight up.

Dean stirred in his seat, frowning. It took an effort for him to turn his head to look at Sam, and when he did he could barely keep his eyes open. His words were slurred. "S'okay…Sammy…"

"What?"

"Not…your...fault…Rambo…" Here Sam was barreling down a lonely highway at midnight with his drugged up, injured brother, on the run from the law, hell, an entire town, possibly an entire county. It was messed up, but all it took was a couple of smartass comments from Dean to make him feel better. Their lives were weird. Then Sam realized that he hadn't said anything out loud and his eyes widened.

Dean's grin was slow and lazy. The drugs were pulling him back down, and he fought it, weakly. His eyelids drooped, and Sam could see him begin the downward slide back under. "Yeah…you did…I can…hear you…you big dork…"

Sam visualized Martha Stewart doing Japanese flower arrangements for the next fifty miles.

Dude looked kind of pathetic sprawled back in the seat like that. Blood soaked the hole in his chest, turned the grey fabric of his janitor's uniform dark and slimy. He looked vulnerable, dead, and totally human. Dean stood there in his cable guy disguise with the bloody stake in his right hand, looking like one of the America's Most Wanted, and it was the only time in his entire life that Dean could remember not particularly liking the kill part of the hunt.

It was your usual "haunted campus, alligator in the sewer" gig. Weird happenings and two even weirder deaths. Despite that, Dean liked the Trickster's style. Almost admired it, really, and that was the first time in his life that Sam had ever heard Dean talk that way about a fugly. A sadistic pledge master got probed and groped by a sexed-up ET. Dean liked the bit about the slow-dancing alien; he'd never be able to listen to that song "Lady In Red" the same way again. Hell, that was if you could get him to even admit he listened to it in the first place. Dean Winchester admitted nothing. If it wasn't Kansas or Metallica or AC/DC, then he wasn't listening. No way, no how.

At first he and Sam didn't know what the hell they were dealing with. Shit kept happening between them, and they were totally sick of each other. Sam accused Dean of stealing his laptop; Dean thought Sam had let the air out of the Impala's tires. By the time Bobby Singer showed up they were at each others throats, until Bobby told them exactly what they were dealing with: a Trickster. "These things create mischief and chaos easy as breathing. It knows you're on to him, and he's been playing you like fiddles."

If it hadn't been for the philandering professor being tossed out of a window by a zombie chick and the research professor who got chomped by that alligator in the sewer, Dean was almost tempted to give the Trickster a pass and look the other way. But, people _had_ died, and fuck it, he couldn't ignore_ that_.

Not even when the Trickster lured him to one of the auditoriums at Crawford Hall on campus one night. Barry White singing "Can't Get Enough of Your Love" was more than enough to pique Dean's interest, and sure enough when he opened the door on stage he saw a huge round red velvet bed surrounded by lava lamps. There was champagne and glasses on a table next to the bed. A giant silver disco ball hung from the ceiling overhead, and two gorgeous women in skimpy black and red Victoria's Secret underwear sat on the bed. One was blonde, and the other was brunette. They were both busty and had legs that went on for _days_.

"It's a peace offering," the Trickster said. "I like you, you and your brother. Just give me enough time to move on to the next town."

Damn, it was one of the few times Dean hated being a hunter.

When he said no, all hell broke loose.

"Sam was right," the Trickster said, and Dean could actually hear regret in his voice. "You shouldn't have come alone."

Sam and Bobby Singer showed up with stakes. A chainsaw yielding madman came out of nowhere and went after them, and when he tried to kill the Trickster Dean got his ass kicked by the blonde _and_ the brunette. During the confusion Dean nailed the Trickster with the stake right in his chest.

The women and the dude with the chainsaw vanished.

Which was now. It should have been over. It was. Except…

All of this happened nearly three weeks ago.

Something tickled the back of his skull, playful and insistent, and that was when Dean knew everything was _all_ fucked up. Suddenly all the aches and pains in his body threatened to bring him to his knees. Dean gripped the edge of one of the stadium seats. Sam wasn't there, and neither was Bobby. He was alone, and right now, in this place, that was the absolute worst thing to be.

He heard a sound behind him and he groaned, leaned his aching head gently into the heel of his left hand. The right side of his mouth and jaw felt sore and tender, coppery slickness of blood on his tongue. "It's not the drugs anymore, is it?" he mumbled out loud, and he cringed inside when he heard that familiar laugh behind him.

"No, it's not the drugs. We're just having a friendly conversation, that's all."

_Son of a bitch. _

Dean sighed heavily. He didn't want to turn around. He really didn't. But he had to.

_Shit._

The two lingerie models were back. They sat on the bed on either side of the Trickster, who looked remarkably alive and well, considering Dean had pushed a stake into his chest moments before. Dean glanced back behind him just in time to see the other body shimmer like a mirage in the desert and disappear into thin air.

_Shit. Shit. Shit!_

The Trickster unwrapped a kingsized candy bar and took the top half off in one bite.

Dean scrubbed his hand over his face. Lord, he needed a drink. One of those Purple Nurples would've hit the spot right then.

One, or two or three of 'em.

"Well, come on then. Take your best shot." Dean said as he swayed a little on his feet, which totally fucked with the macho stance he was trying to put on. Something he couldn't see gripped his wrist and forced his fingers open. The stake in his hand clattered to the floor. His head hurt, fuck, his entire body throbbed. Being used as a punching bag and tossed around into the bed, the stadium chairs and the floor will do that to you. This was not going well _at all_.

"Aw, you got a boo-boo," the blonde pouted. The brunette winked at him and stuck her chest out even further, and Dean hadn't thought _that_ was possible. The brunette patted the space next to her with her hand. "Come on over here and we'll kiss it and make you feel all better," she purred.

Dean gulped, and felt himself twitch.

"What did you do to Sam? And Bobby?"

The Trickster shrugged. "Nothing."

"Then why the hell are we even having this conversation?"

"Cause I hate to see one of my peeps get screwed over, that's all."

Dean stared at him blankly. "One of your…what?"

"Peeps. Amigos? Compadres? Any of this southwestern dialogue ringing any bells with you, Dean? No?" The Trickster shook his head and frowned a little. The other half of the candy bar disappeared into his mouth. "Boy, you're really taking this 'living as a human' thing to heart, aren't you?" He cocked his head to one side, assessing Dean, staring at him from head to toe, as though he was trying to look inside him, straight down to Dean's core. That intense gaze made Dean's skin crawl. The Trickster looked thoughtful, pleased he'd figured it all out, and Dean couldn't figure out what the hell "it" was. "I thought there was something about you the first time I saw you, but…you hide it so deep inside, it was hard to tell at first…"

"What the fuck are you talking about?" Dean glanced down at the stake on the floor, and when he looked up again the Trickster grinned, waggled a finger at him.

The stake turned into a snake and slithered underneath the seats.

"You weren't one of the first, but, man, you were one of the best." The Trickster shook his head in admiration, which left Dean feeling even more confused. He even glanced around behind him, checked to see if there was someone standing behind him, that maybe that was the person the Trickster was talking to. Nobody was there. "You took down some of the biggest assholes in the Old West. You fucked with all those high and mighty jabronis. All the ones that thought they were better than everybody else. The ones that needed a lesson. Those Native American folks really dug your style, y'know? They understand what _we're_ all about."

Dean snorted. "_We?_ I think I missed the memo on this one. I'll say it again. What the fuck are you talking about?"

The Trickster leaned forward and pointed a finger at Dean. "You."

Dean stiffened.

"See, even though you were really something back in the day, you weren't the end all and the be all." He shrugged. "Some of us stepped up and took up the slack. Hey, you did us a favor, gave us younger ones a chance to get out there and strut our stuff. Some of the others in the old countries weren't that accommodating. Loki in Scandinavia. Anansi, in Africa…those guys weren't giving up a thing. Selfish bastards."

"Jeez, dude, monologue much? I think you've mistaken me for somebody who cares. Maybe I ought to sit down for this lecture?" Dean cut his eyes towards the exits, and doubted he'd be able to sprint up the stairs fast enough. The Trickster could conjure up anything. Instantly.

Dean was screwed, and he knew it.

"Nah. I'm nearly finished. You really don't remember, do you? You're the Michaelangelo of building walls, kiddo. I'll give you that. Anyway, way back when, somewhere along the way, you got lonely."

Dean stared at him.

"You wanted a family. I get it. I understand. And you…arranged…with the help of some of our mutual friends, to become ensouled, as it were, in a human. Dean Michael Winchester. First born son of John and Mary Winchester, out of Lawrence Kansas . Older brother to Samuel Winchester."

"I don't wanna hear those names coming out of your mouth, bitch," Dean snarled.

"No need to get hostile, Dean. I didn't think you'd be too thrilled to hear this."

Dean smirked at him. He got it. This was just too fucking ridiculous. "You're fucking with me. That's what you do. So please, enlighten me. Just who am I supposed to be now?"

"Coyote. One of the Original Tricksters. Shape-Changer. Magician."

Dean pressed his lips together, stared at the Trickster like he'd lost his ever loving mind. Then Dean did the only thing he could have.

He laughed. He leaned against the folded up stadium seats and he shook his head and laughed, despite the fact that his back ached, his head hurt like a son-of-a-bitch, and he was pretty sure he wouldn't be leaving the room (or wherever this was) alive.

He sounded slightly hysterical, even though he was trying for sarcastic, but right now he just didn't give a fuck.

The Trickster acted like he didn't even notice. "You're a hell of a good hunter. Damn good instincts. You try to pretend that Sam's the smart one. You sell yourself short. You'd rather have people think you're shallow and even stupid. And speaking of stupid, you can't stand snobs, or authority figures. High and mighty types, remember? You loved your dad. You worshipped the ground he walked on."

At the mention of John Winchester Dean raised his head, kept his face carefully blank. Dean started calculating the distance between him and the bed, started making decisions on who he was going to take out first. With his bare hands.

This bastard loved the sound of his voice. "You love your family, and you'd die for them. In your past lives you already have. Several times over, I think. And speaking of dying, it's been, oh what, twice that you should've checked out already_ this_ time. The first time you damaged your heart when you electrocuted that fugly. Remember? You ever wonder about that, Dean? That taser charge was strong enough to kill that thing outright, but you survived long enough for Sam to find Roy LaGrange, so your heart could be healed. Then you got all guilty about it." The Trickster waved his hand dismissively, and that pissed Dean off. Layla O'Rourke and Marshall Hall died because of him. Who the fuck did this bastard think he was, acting like all that didn't matter? "And that thing with your Dad, after the car crash, well, don't beat yourself up about that. It was all part of the grand celestial plan."

"You're fucking crazy---"

"You hear things now, things you couldn't hear before. You smell scents in the air that the normal human can't even imagine. You see things most two-leggers can't. You're wearing your pelt on the inside, Dean, and that's about to change. The wall you put up inside you got broken when they scratched you. They scratched you, and they tried to get in your body, and they couldn't, because of who and what you are inside. Your true self is coming out, whether you want it to or not."

_Fuck you_, Dean thought to himself. _That was the drugs those bastards pumped into me. I'm not falling for this shit…_

"Whew. You're one stubborn bastard, you know that?" All the spit in Dean's mouth dried up. Instantly. The fucker could read his mind. "Those things you were hunting back in McCoy? You don't know half of what you're dealing with. They're Ilimu. Demons specializing in animal possession. They hunt humans. Irony is a bitch, isn't it? These guys were old when this little mudball was just getting started, but they didn't have any real fun until the two-leggers showed up. That's when the festivities began. Four legs versus two. You can really have your jollies when you mix it up, you know? You attracted their attention, Dean. You and Sam. Now they're gonna come after you two and they're not gonna stop until they get you. It's the rule of tooth and claw."

"Rule of tooth and claw?"

Warm chocolate scented breath filled the shell of Dean's right ear. "Kill or be killed," the Trickster whispered, and smiled. He was suddenly _there._ Dean turned and he was nose to nose with the sumbitch. Fingers slid around Dean's arm and he froze at the touch.

The Trickster squeezed his elbow and smiled at him. The sudden pressure made Dean's eyes bulge outward and he staggered again. God, it felt like his arm was being fucking squeezed on a planetary scale. It was more than pain, it was pressure that stopped him, held him, pressure so powerful that it enveloped his entire body and he forgot how to breathe.

The Trickster grinned at him. "Sorry. Sometimes I don't know my own strength." He leaned closer in. "Told you I could hurt you. Bad. But I won't. I like you, you and Sam. Think of this as a heads up. A wake up call. Right now I'm the least of your worries." The pressure eased up and Dean sat down heavily on one of the hard stadium seats. "Jeez, you don't look so good, Dean. A little green around the gills." The Trickster pulled a candy bar out of his shirt pocket. He unwrapped it, and the sight and smell of all that chocolate made Dean's stomach lurch upwards towards his throat. "Ya want some? Good for what ails you."

Dean shook his head, slowly. "You look like you're gonna hurl," The Trickster continued casually. "Better tell Sam to pull over. You hear me, Dean? Sam's gotta pull over…"

...over…

…pull over…

Everything around him swam out of focus, blurred together. At first Dean figured he'd lost his fucking mind, because he saw Sam sitting on the front bench seat of the Impala watching Martha Stewart very daintly pruning the limbs of a bonsai tree.

"Sam…"

Dean's stomach did a slow greasy flip flop, and the smell of chocolate filled his nose. Dean jerked against the seat belt around his waist, fumbled frantically with numb fingers to unbuckle himself.

"S-Sam," Dean croaked. "Pull over…."

"What?"

"Gonna…hurl…"

Sam couldn't pull over fast enough. Dean threw open the door and fell out onto the shoulder on his hands and knees. Everything that Dean had eaten in the last twenty four hours showed up again, and just when Sam figured Dean couldn't throw up any more, he started up again, only this time it was dry heaves. Sam knelt by Dean and slowly rubbed the space between his shoulder blades in small circles, like they'd done for each other when they were kids.

"Quit touching me, you perv," Dean grated as he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. Sam grinned and stopped, but he kept his hand on Dean's shoulder. Dean couldn't be too sick if he still had the energy to bitch at him.

He didn't have enough energy to get back in the Impala by himself, though. His knees buckled as Sam helped him up. Sam tried to turn him around so he could pull his legs in, and Dean shook his head tiredly at him and waved him off with a limp hand. "Dude…give me a minute." Dean leaned the side of his head against the top of the bench seat. Bruises on his face, clothes all ripped. He looked like hell.

"I…I love ya, Sammy…. You know that, right?"

Sam couldn't hide his smile. "Yeah, I know you do, Dean."

"I love you…like a…like a brother." Dean blinked slowly. "None'a that…brokeback stuff, ya know? Like a …a …little brother, and… I…love you…wait…I said that…already, didn't I?"

His shoulders slumped, and Sam could see the energy leaving his body. Dean was on the downward slide again, and that pissed Sam off. What the fuck kind of drugs did those bastards give him? He tried not to let that thought get out.

Dean didn't notice. His focus was on something else. "Don't know what's so damn…damned…funny," Dean huffed. "D-dun't…don't wanna lose you too…"

"I'm not going anywhere, Dean." Sam knelt down in front of his brother. Dean didn't even have enough strength to sit up, but he turned his head so that he could look at Sam. Dean was pale in the light from the highway lights; that spray of freckles over his nose stood out against his skin and the color of his eyes was a dull greenish grey.

"I lose people, you know? Always…have. M'a freak. I lost Mom…" The sad look on Dean's face made Sam's expression soften.

Sam leaned forward, touched Dean's shoulder gently. "Dude, you were four years old…"

"Doesn't…matter. I shoulda…done…something…I lost Dad too." Dean blinked slowly. "You left me. Left my big dumb ass and went to school," and Sam flinched when Dean said it. It was was true, even the ugly "big, dumb ass" part. Sam flinched because there was a time when he didn't think much of Dean, thought he was Dad's brainwashed little toy soldier. Not any more.

"…brainwashed… toy…soldier," Dean slurred, and Sam stared at him, the hair at the back of his neck slowly standing up. How the hell did he…

Dean stubbornly hung on, even though he was sinking, held on long enough to stutter out the words, "….d-did…d-did I do s-somethin'…to m-make you l-leave?" The earnestness, the vulnerability in Dean's face and voice made Sam's throat close up and he felt his eyes sting with tears.

"No." Sam shook his head.

"You guys…don't…need me...like I need you…."

"That's not true, Dean," Sam whispered.

"Dad..said…"

"Dad was possessed by the yellow eyed demon when he told you that."

"Dad…said…" Dean repeated simply, as though he believed it, believed every word, no matter what Sam said. His eyes shuttered close, and Sam saw the last bit of tension leave his body.

They were back on the road not long after that.

Sam was so weirded out by the conversation he didn't recognize that they'd just had a major legue chick flick moment.

_One hundred feet up over the Impala a hawk sliced thru the night sky, turning and cartwheeling in the moonlight. It enjoyed the feel of the wind over its sleek body. It spread its wings and looped over the highway above the brothers. It was not the first time this Ilimu had possessed a bird of flight, but it had been a while, and the demon inside felt something like enjoyment. The bird's eyes were black as pitch, blacker than normal, and it watched the taller human carefully place the other one back inside the car. In the surrounding woods mice ran and hid, trembling in the grass, and even the larger wildlife left in these parts crouched down, hiding, frozen in fear, until the bird moved off. _

_It flew upwards in a loop, gaining speed for the downward stroke. The tall human's face would be an easy target. It would hook its claws into the young one's eyes, blind it so it couldn't see. That would give the others time to catch up. The other human was in no condition to drive, or defend itself. _

_On the downward stroke it extended its clawed feet and felt something unseen grip its body, fold its wings against itself. It struggled, wobbled in the air, but it was no use. The hawk spiraled head first at high speed into the thick ancient trunk of an oak tree, and the crack of its skull splitting open was a slight sound in the darkness._

_The small cloud of thick oily smoke inside the bird's limp body twisted in on itself in an endless loop. It tried to escape the cooling flesh. It couldn't._

_Not even the foxes came around to scavenge the carcass_.


	4. Chapter 4 The Devil in the Details

Okay, one long chapter divided into three. You're getting chapters 4, 5 and 6 today, folks.

Yeah, I'm a sucker for those Sammy puppy dog eyes!

I am absolutely floored by all the encouragement I've gotten for this fractured fairy tale of mine. I figured maybe one or two people would read this story and comment on it. I'm glad I was wrong. I'm posting today because I want to come back tomorrow and read what you think. I really enjoy reading your reviews!

Author's Notes: If you watched "Tall Tales" you might notice that the Trickster did not have any telepathic abilities, but Dean seems to have too much of it. Let's just say that after all these years of suppressing himself, Dean's become extremely…._sensitive_ to the world around him.

That's my story, and I'm sticking to it.

Spoilers: Devils Trap, Born Under a Bad Sign, Hunted

Disclaimer: Don't own them. I'll give them back. Maybe.

**Dog Eat Dog**

Chapter 4: The Devil in the Details 

It had many names, like most of its kind. The old names, the ancient ones, were never uttered out loud. Names _do_ have power, and it's best to keep them secret, and safe.

Right now it was nestled securely inside the body of Eric Matheny, a hospital orderly at McCoy Memorial Hospital, and it was a lead pipe cinch that Eric would be dead of a heart attack or a brain aneurysm before the night was over. It didn't care one way or another. It was nothing personal. It would be out of him and long gone by the time that happened, and being in a hospital wouldn't do him a damned bit of good. He'd be dead long before the Code Blue even sounded.

The hallway lights blinked and sputtered as it walked by. It gathered energy from everywhere, the electrical system, the electrical impulses in Eric's body. The patient in Room 213 decided to glance out in the hallway at the moment, and the thing inside Matheny's body whispered a spell in Latin and sucked up her life energy like a sponge. It needed all it could get. The woman slumped back onto the pillow, her eyes open and glassy, gone already, her heart a crumpled ruin inside her chest. The thing grinned despite itself.

It liked humans, actually. It liked to hunt them, it liked to fuck with them, and occasionally it liked to fuck them too, in various bodies, both human and animal.

It liked…the variety.

The thing inside Matheny ignored the commotion behind it as the nurses rushed the crash cart into Room 213. It slipped inside the examination room at the end of the hall and locked the door behind it. As requested the large mirror had been set into the far wall, and a duffel bag with clothes sat on a chair in the corner. This wasn't the first time it had walked into this very same room wearing a different skin.

The body of the dog lay on the metal table, covered by a white sheet. It wasn't as big as it had been before, not nearly as big as it had been down in the sewer. The dog was a big Rotweiler-Saint Bernard mix, a stray that was due to be euthanized at the animal control center in McCoy some months back. That place was useful for finding new prospects. The dog had been abused by humans, and the Ilimu had found it to be especially well suited for the winter hunts in McCoy. Unlike most other animals it didn't struggle when approached by Ilimu.

It stroked its bloody muzzle with Matheny's fingers, and it used the muscles of his face to frown as it fingered the numerous bullet holes that marked its body. Most of them were concentrated in the chest, in a tight cluster. Silver. Three shots to the head, between the eyes in a tight pattern.

Professional and efficient.

For a human.

It considered humans, prey, considered them to be blind, willful children, and the one thing it definitely did not consider them to be was equals. It knew about human hunters, and had slaughtered its share of them during its long life. Back in the 1800s it took a female grizzly bear up in Canada, and it killed fifty people that winter, in the dark and snow, before it got bored and decided to move on to a warmer climate. Some years after that it used the body of a wolf in California to spread fear and terror and blood and death. Two years ago it slipped into the body of an alligator, and it used the animal to cruise the streets of New Orleans after Katrina hit. It found more than enough prey down there to keep it happy and satisfied.

One thing it did appreciate about humans was their ability to cling to normal. They ignored their intuition, even ignored strange things that happened right in front of them.

These two brothers weren't like that. It knew they were trouble the moment it laid eyes on them.

That night it hovered in the corner along with several of its kin, watched the mayor interrogate the young man they'd found in the sewer. It never hurt to let the humans think they had control of the situation, and there was a lot to be said for keeping a low profile. They could manifest as screaming black smoke, or wisps of gently moving air. A cold breeze across the back of the neck, something the average human wouldn't even notice until it was too late.

It never forgot the way the green eyed boy had stared directly at them, growling low in his throat, when they considered bringing down the younger one. Some humans could see them; it happened sometimes.

The frown on Matheny's face got deeper as it moved its hands down the dog's body.

This vessel was empty.

That shouldn't have been. The boy didn't have any other equipment with him but the guns they'd found down there with him. No exorcism rituals, no Key of Solomon, nothing that could explain what happened to the Ilimu inside.

It was…erased.

It leaned Matheny over, and his mouth stretched impossibly wide as he held the dog's large bloody head with both hands. He placed his mouth over the stone cold muzzle of the dog, and his eyes bulged as he exhaled. It looked like he was trying to give it mouth to mouth, but he wasn't breathing life into it.

After a few moments Matheny's eyes rolled back up into his head and he crumpled to the floor. It triggered the fatal spasm in his brain as it left him.

It knew about shapeshifters, had even hunted a few. Those organics always did things the hard way, the painful way. Skin ripping, teeth falling out, screaming, and blood. Well, what did you expect from something that was human, anyway?

The dog's body swelled to accommodate the Ilimu. The limbs stretched long and twitched, and its eyes were reddish orange when they opened.

It sat up on the gurney.

It pushed the silver rounds out of the flesh with its mind. The slugs made a tinny sound as they hit the surface of the metal table. The wounds closed up. It raised one massive paw to its mouth and slowly, thoroughly licked Dean Winchester's dried blood and skin off its claws. As it did, it let its mind go blank.

It saw a blonde woman pinned bleeding to the ceiling, her face a mask of horror and sorrow as the flames swept all around her. It felt the boy's father hug him and his infant brother, felt the emptiness that surrounded them all. It saw the boy as he grew up, walking after his father, a child trying to be a man before his time, always followed by the other one, the younger brother, who worshipped him and revolved around him like a moon around a planet.

It took note of the young man's love and concern for his younger brother, Samuel, and it grinned unpleasantly when it realized that Samuel would belong to the yellow eyed one. More than enough reason to go after these two, then…that would be payback for the times that yellow eyed bastard had interfered in the affairs of the Ilimu. It watched as the boy hunted and killed, tasted fear in his mouth, felt dread cramp his insides sometimes. He felt the boy's bloodlust and his pure joy at surviving to see another day. He loved his father and his brother, he would die for them, and had killed without hesitation to protect them. It saw the boy harden into a man, and all the secrets, the shame and the demons inside him were walled up, one by one, but there was one secret, the biggest one, that had always been walled in.

Until now.

The skin rippled, and the fur grew thin, pulled back inside thru the pores of its skin in a slight wavering motion. The ears, tail and muzzle pulled back inside the body. The genitals shrank to nothing. The paws and fingers rounded off, split into a five fingered shape. The bare flesh went smooth as melted wax. This body was a perfect blank now, ready to be filled out, shaped and molded, and that was why this particular demon had been chosen for this task in the first place. It was an artist, and a damn good one, with a particularly fine eye for detail.

There was an art to this, to being able to assume another's form so perfectly that one could walk up to family and friends, and smile and be welcomed into the fold with loving arms. Not all of its kin were suited for this kind of thing. Some of the older ones were reckless, or careless. Some of them were timid. They only thing they all had in common was the fact that they enjoyed murdering humans.

It bowed its head, closed its eyes, and the body responded, a faint shimmer of dark static in the air around it. The flesh ran like candlewax. The chest deepened, and the stomach went flat. The body became compactly built, muscular, broad shouldered, well suited for the hunt, lethal in a fight if need be.

Freckles dotted the skin, across the nose, the shoulders, and chest. The ears were next, then that patrician nose, that full mouth. Long eyelashes pushed their way out of the skin and the short dark blonde spiky hair on the head was next.

It knew his moves, all the tricks, strategies and improvisations the boy had used to hunt and kill wendigos, shtrigas, vampires, all those lesser spirits and demons. Every thought Dean Winchester ever had was stored in his blood and skin. There was a whole universe in there, and he wasn't unique in that. Most humans lived their lives trying to pretend that the mind was separate from the body. Ilimu knew better.

It knew the story behind each and every scar on his body. It stood there naked with its eyes closed, and the corners of its mouth quirked upwards slightly.

And those green eyes blinked open.

Beautiful.


	5. Chapter 5 Meatsuit Shuffle

Disclaimer: Don't own 'em. Darn it!

Also, I am notorious for making up names of cities, towns and highways. All the places I've mentioned **do not** exist, and they are supposed to be located near the Illinois/Indiana border. (???) Anyway, I apologize if there really is a McCoy, Indiana. It doesn't play host to demon spawn every year. No. Really, it doesn't.

**Dog Eat Dog**

**Chapter 5: Meatsuit Shuffle**

**Highway M - ****Illinois/Indiana border**

Hank Darrow heard the skitch of claws on the back deck, but he didn't move from the hammock. Moose was back. Moose was always bringing home weird stuff. Hank knew he shouldn't let the damn dog run loose, but he'd been working double shifts at the plant lately and he was tired and it was easier just to open the door and let the big dumbass run. He'd come back. He always did.

Folks were always throwing away stuff along that highway down the hill behind the house, and sure enough Moose was good for finding…stuff. Must have been the fact that he was part golden retriever. Once he showed up at the back door, smiling in that wide mouthed way some dogs seem to have, with a woman's small black leather purse in his mouth. Damn thing had money in it, too – one hundred twenty three bucks and change. Hank figured the gods were smiling on him that day, because times were tight then, and yeah, he'd gone out and bought the dummy some cheap meat at the store as a reward.

He cracked one eye open, and the damn dog grinned at him, mouth stretched wide around the bird in his mouth. Moose's muzzle was smeared with blood so he must have been chewing on the damned thing. It was some kind of hawk, and Hank had just enough time to wonder just what he was going to do with the damn thing when the dog opened his mouth and dropped the bird's body on Hank's chest.

Hank let out a yell as some kind of black smoke flowed out of the bird's body and up his chest. It slipped up his nostrils and he struggled weakly, but his eyes were pitch black when he opened them again. The demon inside him looked around and decided it was all good.

It hated being earthbound again, but it hated being trapped even more. It stood up, stretched, not liking the heavy feel of the man's body, but it smiled when it jammed its hands into its pockets and felt those the keys to Hank's F150 truck in its hand.

Road trip.

**Crawford, Illinois**

The drunk chick stumbled across the parking lot, tipping along on those stiletto heels, and K9 Officer John Chambers played the game If I Don't See You, You're Not There. She was tall and skinny, and her blood red hair looked like a rat's nest. It was a wig, Chambers thought as he continued to ignore her. Had to be. It was tilted over her right eye and just didn't look right. The mascara around her eyes gave her the unfortunate look of a spaced out raccoon. Her stockings were ripped, and that yellow bustier, matching jacket and flippy short skirt was way too small and too tight.

6AM in the morning and she'd probably been drinking or doping all night. The idea of being vomited on or cussed out just didn't appeal to Chambers. Hell, he had five minutes until he went off shift, and he'd had enough of protecting and serving for the night. It's not that he was a bad cop or anything, but it had been a long night. A long boring night. No action. Whoever said that police work is hours of tedium punctuated by five seconds of terror nailed it. Chambers didn't get his five seconds of terror that night. He felt cheated somehow.

Poor bastard didn't realize how lucky he really was.

Pink orange sunrise streaked the horizon in the distance, and he wanted to get home to his wife and two kids and get some sleep. Later on he wanted to play ball in the back yard with Thor. The black and tan German shepherd moved restlessly around in the cage behind Chambers in the K9 unit, then plopped its huge frame down on the seat. Its jaws cracked open in a huge toothy yawn, and it laid its big head down on its paws, ears flopping upright loosely in opposite directions.

Chambers glanced in the rear view mirror and tried not to grin. _Yeah, me too, buddy._

The drunk chick didn't give the K9 unit parked at the curb a second glance, but the car was like a magnet, seemed to draw her over to it anyway. She veered across the parking lot, onto the sidewalk, teetering on those insanely high heels of hers, and Chambers cursed under his breath. Thor sat up in the cage behind him. The dog's chain collar made a slight jingling sound, and the growl the shepherd made was so low it was felt instead of heard.

Chambers glanced in the rear view mirror at the dog. It leaned forward, stared at the woman. "Hey now, settle down, boy."

Thor pricked his ears forward and ignored him.

Chambers shrugged. This was the same dog he'd taken into classrooms with him, the same dog that had happily stood in the midst of a group of elementary school kids as they scratched his ears, and petted him all over. Thor's tail wagged so hard one time he nearly knocked one of the smaller kids over. Of course, this was also the same dog that had tracked down a robbery suspect after a five block foot chase and dragged the guy out from under a parked bakery truck.

By the leg.

Something heavy thumped against the hood of the cruiser, and the car rocked back and forth in place.

Damn.

Miss Hoochie Mama was laying sprawled across the hood, between the headlights.

_Well, this one would've been good for the gag reel_, Chambers thought sourly. The dashboard camera wasn't even on. He sighed heavily as he got out of the car. For one brief insane moment he actually thought about starting the cruiser, putting it in reverse, and then backing up. He imagined watching her slide off the hood of the car in slow motion. She'd probably bounce when she hit the pavement.

He thought about it, but he didn't do it, but that didn't stop him from looking to see if anybody was around. There were several birds sitting on a delivery truck parked about twenty feet away. He squinted. Damn, one of them looked like a large brown owl. A couple of them looked like ducks. There was a pigeon or two up there, too. They sat on the top of the truck in a line, and seemed to be staring at him, like a jury.

Chambers shook his head. Nah. He was seeing things. He'd had a long night and he was tired.

"Hey, miss---" He rounded the front of the car and touched her arm. He had just enough time to wonder why her skin felt so warm, almost hot. Her eyes looked funny. She let him pull her back up on her feet and she reached out and scratched him on the side of the neck with one chewed up fingernail. The woman stumbled drunkenly against Chambers' broad chest, and her eyes went back to normal. Chambers' eyes filled with pitch blackness, and the demon grinned as Chambers was pulled down screaming inside his own body.

Ah, that was _much_ better.

It roughly grabbed the female by the arm and dragged her around to the back of the cruiser. She stood there swaying from side to side as he unlocked the trunk and she didn't struggle much when it dumped her in.

The demon's grin got wider.

You can never have enough bodies.

It fingered the pistol in the holster on its hip, the taser, the cuffs, and the billy club. This body was young, stocky, able to take and inflict a lot of damage. The police equipment, this body and the cruiser were all plusses.

Oh, but the best part, the absolute _best_ part was the dog in the cage.

Thor backed up when the thing inside Chambers' body approached the car. The shepherd's eyes practically bulged out of its sockets, and its lips curled back over its teeth. It snarled one minute, whined the next. It was caught between the desire to attack and the realization that it was Chambers' body standing outside the car.

"Good dog," Chambers grated. "Such a good dog." His throat sounded full of ground glass.

**Madge's Dew Drop In Truck Stop - ****Vashon, Illinois **

Dean sat up, closed his eyes and groaned as he put the ice cold water bottle between his eyes. Yeah. That was _nice_.

Sam grinned as he maneuvered the Impala around a tractor trailer rig parked on the lot. "'Bout time you woke up, sleeping beauty. Damn, what some people won't do to get out of their fair share of driving."

"As many times as I changed your diapers when you were a baby, Gigantor, I'd say we're even."

"You say the sweetest things."

"I know." A truck sounded its horn as it roared past them, and Dean flinched. "Shit, kill me now."

"Headache?"

Dean was careful not to nod. His head would fall off if he did. He held onto the water bottle's ice cold goodness for dear life and groaned a little.

Sam nodded. "You got a bottle of aspirin in your shirt pocket there, bro."

Dean pulled the water bottle away, reluctantly opened his eyes, and hissed as early morning sunlight stabbed into his eyes. His brain seemed to do a slow turn inside his head, soft edges scraping up against the inside of his hard bony skull, and for once he was glad he wasn't driving the Impala. They would have been wrapped around a telephone pole by now.

He lowered his head and raised a hand towards his shirt pocket. Then he stopped and stared.

"Uh, Sam?"

"Yeah?"

"When…when did I change my clothes?"

Sam shrugged. "You didn't."

"I didn't?"

"Nope, I did."

"Oh. You got a thing for seeing me unconscious and half naked that I didn't know about?"

Sam kept a straight face. "A couple of hours ago we stopped at a gas station just past the Illinois state line. I helped you into the restroom and I cleaned you up. Wiped you down with holy water, put antiseptic cream on those scratches. Stitched up your ankle. Taped it up, too." He reached out and tapped his hand lightly on Dean's chest. Dean laughed shortly, in pain. "And I thought you'd look absolutely adorable in that purple plaid shirt and your other black t shirt."

Dean scowled and pulled at the shirt front with his fingers. "Don't worry," Sam nodded. "Your masculine ego and virility is intact."

"Oh-okay. Where's my black jacket?"

Sam frowned. "It was all ripped up, Dean. I had to pitch it. _And_ your t-shirt. _And_ your denim shirt."

"You…what?"

"Yep. Gone."

"I—I liked that jacket."

"Hey, it could have been worse. It could've been your leather jacket."

"Kill that sumbitch all over again if he touched my leather," Dean grumbled. He fished the aspirin bottle out of his pocket and shook two tablets out onto his palm. For a moment Sam was prepared to start bitching if Dean just dry-swallowed them with no water. Dean shot his brother a look, tossed the pills into his mouth, uncapped the bottle and took a big swallow of water.

Sam knew that look.

"What's the matter?"

"Nothing. Just…"

"Just what?"

"Why do I keep seeing Martha Stewart doing flower arrangements?"

Sam sighed as he pulled the Impala into a parking space in front of the truck stop and turned off the engine. "Dude, we gotta talk about_ that_."

Later on, after things had quieted down, Sam had to admit that taking his telepathic brother into a truck stop diner filled with noisy people wasn't the smartest thing he'd ever done. He also thanked God that nobody called the cops.

**Forever Home Animal Sanctuary - ****Hamilton Heights, Illinois**

The vet had given Teddy three weeks, a month tops. His earlier life as a lab animal had finally caught up with him. It was a damned shame, but Grace was determined that the old boy was going to spend his last days in peace and as comfortable as she could make him. And if she had to spoil him rotten with his favorite treats all day, every day, then so be it.

Grace swung the metal bucket full of cut up fruits and vegetables by her side as she walked up to the wire enclosure, and sure enough Teddy was there, sitting out in the early morning sun. The big old chimp sat near the fence, and the white hairs around his chin and that long jowly face of his reminded Grace so much of her Uncle Percy that she couldn't help smiling. As far as she and the vet could tell he wasn't in pain. He wasn't suffering. Grace wanted to keep him in the sunshine as long as possible. She knew that was probably selfish on her part, but she didn't care.

Teddy's buddy Pookie was nowhere to be seen in the enclosure, but Grace wasn't surprised. He'd show up as soon as he realized Teddy was getting treats, and demand his share.

She stopped and knelt by the fence, poked her fingers thru the wire. "Hi, sweetie."

Teddy didn't move. Just sat there, stared at her with those deep brown eyes of his.

"Teddy?" Grace felt cold fear climb up her spine. The old boy had never acted like this. He was shaking, frozen in place. She wondered if the cancer had somehow made it into his brain.

"Teddy?"

Nothing.

Grace put the bucket down, and she stood up and unlatched the gate. Teddy still didn't move as she came around and knelt in front of him, and Grace felt her heart tighten in her chest. She didn't want him to suffer. If this was what she thought this was, and she prayed to God that it wasn't, she could call the vet, have him come out and give Teddy dignified passage into the next world…

He was still shaking as she hugged him. He wrapped his long arms around her waist and closed his eyes.

The last thing Grace said in _this_ world was "Sweetie, what's wrong?"

The thick tree branch that slammed into the back of her head fractured her skull, broke her neck quite cleanly, but the Ilimu inside Pookie hit her several more times, with more force that was necessary, just to make sure. Its pitch black eyes shone brightly and it bared its teeth and grinned and hooted loudly each time it hit her. Grace's head was beaten to dark jelly by the time it got through.

This one had all the bodies it would ever need, right here.

Teddy, for one. The old chimp lay trembling on his side as Pookie finished up with Grace. Pookie pinned Teddy down without much effort as a small cloud of oily black smoke spewed out of Pookie's mouth. It settled over Teddy's face and he inhaled it with his next trembling breath.

Afterwards they took their time, unlocking the enclosures as they went.


	6. Chapter 6 Breakfast at Spook Central

Spoilers: In My Time of Dying, Born Under a Bad Sign, Crossroads Blues

**Dog Eat Dog**

**Chapter 6: Breakfast at Spook Central **

Sam had seen Dean in all kinds of moods. He'd seen his big brother confused, sick, injured and rageful. Sam knew how Dean looked when he was full blown lethal, killing fuglies left and right. Through the years Sam had watched Dean face down vengeful spirits, ghouls, corrupt cops and angry mobs with a smartass remark and that infamous grin of his. But now, now Dean looked so…vulnerable. He sat hunched over in the passenger side of the Impala, and he was shaking. Trembling like a damn leaf. His eyes were half closed, his face was even paler than before. Dean breathed heavily thru his mouth, and he hadn't stopped yelling until Sam pulled the car away from the diner, far away from the diner, in front of that wooded area on the far side of the parking lot.

There was something else Sam didn't want to think about, but he couldn't get rid of the thought quickly enough. He almost fell over himself getting out of the car. He didn't know if distancing himself would really help, because if this telepathy of Dean's was really that sensitive, maybe it wouldn't make a difference how close or how far Sam was, but he got out of the car anyway, stood back from the Impala, about ten feet back. Sam's face was creased with worry as he stared at Dean through the windshield. He jammed his hands into his pockets and his shoulders hunched forward.

_If this is something permanent, and Dean can't get a handle on it, how the hell is he going to watch out for himself? _

Sam tensed up, then relaxed slightly when Dean didn't react.

Come on, Sam, be honest.

_How the hell is Dean going to watch out for…me?_

Sam shook his head and concentrated on Martha. She was going a little medieval on that bonsai tree.

He should have picked up on the signs that Dean wasn't quite…himself. Should have told him to wait in the car while he got the food to go. Sam hadn't slept in hours, and he was bone tired, but this was about Dean, and Sam wouldn't cut himself a break.

Usually Dean was always the first one to enter. A room, a place, anywhere. He always put himself between Sam and whatever they were going to encounter in any situation. He always took point. This time, Dean hung back. Sam had noticed he was moving kind of slow when they got out of the Impala, but he chalked that up to the hell Dean had been thru in the last twenty hours or so. Dean reached into the back seat, grabbed his beloved brown leather jacket, and he shrugged into it as he limped behind Sam up the stairs into the diner.

That should've rung all sorts of alarm bells with Sam, but it didn't. First time in twelve hours Dean had actually walked under his own power with a sore, taped up ankle, and Sam didn't think much of it until he turned and saw Dean's face. There were slight dark circles under his eyes, along with the bruises. He looked roughed up a little, but it wasn't enough to make anyone run screaming into the streets. For a minute he thought Dean was being self-conscious about his face, but…it seemed to be something else.

Dean's eyes nervously shifted around the room. He bit his lips, glanced around and caught Sam staring at him and Dean's face got carefully blank. Martha popped like a soap bubble inside Sam's head. Sam thought, _Way to go, Dad. Your oldest son can't even admit that he's hurting. Marines man up, they don't admit weakness. _

Dean got pissed off, just that quick. Sam could see it. He scowled and his lips formed into that tight thin line that meant he was seriously considering kicking somebody's ass. As soon as he could identify said kickee, it was _on_. That was how Sam knew that this mojo or telepathy or whatever the hell it was still working. If you wanted to get Dean riled up, then all you had to do was badmouth John Winchester. That was one tell that always worked. Guaranteed.

There was another thing…the color of Dean's eyes. Sam had seen the color in those eyes go through all kinds of changes over the years. Bright green when Dean was really excited by something, sometimes greenish gray or brown, all the way down to a washed out hazel color if he was really tired or hurting. Now, though…Sam stepped back, and his own eyes narrowed. Dean's eyes were still very green, but they seemed backlit, like an animal staring into a flame.

Dean's eyes shifted back and forth like he was seeing and hearing something that nobody else could. And even though Dean was trying to keep that calm, disinterested look on his face, this time the mask was slipping all over the place, and Sam could tell that whatever Dean was seeing and hearing, it was totally freaking him out.

"Dean?"

He was favoring that injured ankle and he stumbled back, reached out and steadied himself with a one-handed death grip on the back of an empty chair. The scrape of the chair legs on the floor was loud enough to make several patrons turn around and stare. Dean didn't react until Sam put his hand on his arm, and when Sam touched him, Dean jumped, startled.

"I…I'm not hungry."

"Dean, you haven't eaten anything…"

More people looked up from their plates just to watch.

A little old gray haired woman at the next table stared them up and down and shook her head in disgust. _Umph…they must be gay for each other or something_, she thought, wrinkling up her nose, and it shocked the hell out of her when Dean stared right back at her and snarled, "We're not gay, he's my _brother_, you old bitch."

"Dean!" Sam tightened his grip on his arm. Dean stepped back and jerked his arm out of Sam's grip.

"N-not hungry. I'll - I'll be in the car." Dean turned around and walked off as quickly as his ankle would allow. Just before the door swung close behind him Sam could see him put his hand to his head.

_Damn…_

God, the noise hit him like a fucking wave even before he walked thru the door. Food, blood, sweat, body odors, shit he couldn't even identify, but he smelled it just the same. He could taste all those things in his mouth, and his stomach gave a slow greasy flip flop.

He couldn't tell Sam that he didn't want to go in, that he'd rather stay in the car. If he did, one thing would lead to another, and all roads right now led to a damn chick flick moment. The way he was feeling Dean knew he couldn't avoid or deflect the sumbitch. He didn't even feel well enough to intimidate Sam into dropping the subject, and God knows Dean had done that more than one time. Not today. He felt weak. Dean hated appearing weak in front of anyone, but he _really_ hated appearing weak in front of Sam.

In the diner Dean felt his eardrums expand and contract as the wave of sound hit him. The throbbing inside his head rose and fell in time with the noise. Everything was too bright, too loud. It was words and sounds, all jumbled together, and the noise was distorted, warbling high and low-pitched sounds that never should have been heard on earth, had no business coming out of human mouths.

_Dean? Son…_

It was a low throaty rumble, a voice Dean would've given _anything_ to hear again, anything. Months ago Dean had very nearly bartered his immortal soul in exchange for John's safe return at the crossroads near Lloyd's Bar. Dean glanced over to his left and his heart tightened painfully inside his chest. He felt his knees buckle, and he stepped back, put one hand on the back of an empty chair to steady himself.

John Winchester was standing there, tall and dark, one eyebrow raised slightly, a puzzled expression on his face as he watched his eldest son freak out.

_Oh, God, no, please…_

John blinked out in a snap of black static.

_I'm losing my fucking mind_, Dean thought wildly. His injured ankle almost caved in on him then, and he gripped the back of that chair so hard his knuckles turned white.

He couldn't look away, couldn't find a safe place; they were everywhere. He didn't want to close his eyes, either. That would only make him look crazier than he already looked.

The dude over there in the booth with those two giggly teenagers…Dean could tell he was dead because he could see straight thru him. The spirit stood on the table top barefoot, with a thick length of rope around his neck tied in a hangman's knot. His yellow scaly toenails were long and curved, and as Dean looked up he tied the other end of the noose around one of the support beams in the rafters. His skin and clothes were loose and gray, one blurring into another. One of the girls said something stupid, laughed like a fucking hyena. Her lips pulled back from her teeth like she was going to bite the other one, and her hand passed right thru the guy's legs as she grabbed the sugar dispenser and dumped half the container into her coffee.

The spirit glared down at the teenagers like he wanted to wrap his hands around their throats and squeeze. He hadn't crossed over.

He didn't want to.

The family of four in the booth over near the window…they'd been killed when a semi plowed into their car down the road. Dean felt a _huge_ twinge of sympathy for them -- he didn't know how he knew how they'd died, he just _did_ somehow -- but none of them realized they were dead. They kept coming back to the diner, because it was the last place they remembered. The kids were wide eyed but quiet. The little girl clung to her older brother, and they all turned around with those pale faces of theirs and stared at Dean with hollow dark eyes.

Some of the older spirits swirled and darted around overhead like wisps of cold air. They circled the ceiling fans and swam and curved around each other in mid air.

None of this was right. He was Dean Winchester, not Haley Joel Osment, and as far as he could see, none of these damn things looked like Bruce Willis, either. It was one thing to hunt spirits down, to send them to their eternal rest, but to look up and see them staring him in the face all the time? Fuck that. He knew he was a freak, figured that his life-time membership in the freak club was bought and paid for the night he looked up when he was four years old and saw his mother bleeding and burning on the ceiling of Sam's nursery. This wasn't him. This wasn't him at all.

He heard heartbeats. The sound scraped over him, bruised his skin, rubbed it raw. Some hearts were strong, some beat in an irregular fashion, like someone hitting a drum out of sync. Dean could hear blood rushing thru veins, bones creaking inside skin. The slip slide click of muscles and tendons grated in his ears and made his teeth ache. Eyes moving around in sockets made a wet clicking sound, and when the live ones breathed it sounded like a rusty bellows pulling air inside, and then pushing it out…

When Dean looked at Sam he saw light and dark swirling together, all over his brother's body. He could see the worry and concern in Sam's eyes – he still looked human, it was Sam after all, but when Sam's eyes flashed pitch dark for a second Dean thought wildly, _Dad, I'm sorry, I - I can't…I can't save him, can't save any of them_, and that was the moment when he couldn't take any of this anymore.

That was when he backed away, away from Sam, and got the hell out of there as fast as he could.

Outside wasn't much better.

The earth made a rumbling sound as it turned underneath his feet. He looked up at the sky and those high thin clouds overhead made a low whistling sound as they pushed air in front of them. This was fucking sick. It was crazy…

Dean stumbled down the stairs, nearly face-planted into the concrete parking lot. He caught himself on the railing and his ankle kept right on protesting all this sudden activity. He limped over to the Impala and threw himself inside.

The Impala was his baby, his pride and joy. It should have been his safe haven.

It wasn't.

He rocked back and forth in the passenger seat, cradled his aching head in both hands.

_Get out of my head_, Dean whispered frantically. _Get out of my fucking head…get out…_

_GET OUT, GET OUT, GET OUT---_

He couldn't hear himself screaming.

He didn't hear the creak of the driver's side door opening and closing. He couldn't feel Sam's hand on his arm, and when Dean finally came back to himself Sam had driven the Impala all the way over to the far side of the parking lot, near the woods, away from traffic, away from the diner, hell, away from nearly everything. Sam stood outside at the front of the car staring at him with that worried puppy dog look on his face.

Dean could still hear the slow rumble of the earth as it turned underneath the Impala. He sensed rabbits and the occasional fox as they moved thru the underbrush, but those thoughts were quiet, simple. Sam's heartbeat kept on thumping, all precise and perfect and distinctly Sam-like. The shush of blood rushing thru his brother's veins was somehow comforting, and Dean got pissed off all over again when he saw Martha Stewart trimming that damn bonsai tree again -- _for God's sake, Sam, turn the channel, will ya?_-- but this was Sam, _just_ Sam, and that was okay. It wasn't perfect, but it was a hell of a lot better than before.


	7. Chapter 7 What Lies Beneath

Spoilers: Faith, Children Shouldn't Play With Dead Things

No Ilimu in this one. Got plenty of angst, though. Oh, the humanity!

Disclaimer: Don't own 'em. Darn it.

**Author's Notes:** I really, really,_ really _appreciate ALL the reviews I've gotten for this story. This is the first time I've written a multi-chap fic, and I couldn't have done it without all your kind reviews and encouragement! Much thanks to everyone who read and enjoyed this twisted tale of mine, even if you lurked and didn't review. I'm feeling the love, y'all!

Also, several months ago over on Live Journal I read a wonderful meta which speculated on what kind of animals the boys would be. This meta was written by lunardreamed, and was entitled _Spirit Animals_, in which the author gave some very convincing arguments that Dean's animal totem would be a coyote, instead of a wolf. Once I saw "Tall Tales" it all seemed to fall into place. I'm not shortchanging Sammy; nobody, I mean _nobody_, does comfort better than Sam Winchester.

This was a really hard chapter to write, what with all the angst and that pesky sense of impending doom, so I'm posting this one by itself.

The title of this chapter was taken from the movie "What Lies Beneath" with Harrison Ford and Michele Pffeifer.

I will post more chapters this Saturday. The violence and weirdness is only going to get worse. I did mention I'm twisted, right?

**Dog Eat Dog**

**Chapter 7: What Lies Beneath **

Dean dreamed.

He felt the twitching and jerking thru his body as his overworked nervous system tried to settle down from the trauma he'd experienced in the diner. He was in a fetal position, curled up on his side, his head in the window corner of the front passenger seat. Before they pulled off Sam gently pushed a folded up blanket underneath his head, and he buttoned the front of Dean's heavy leather jacket up, pulled the collar up around Dean's neck. Temperatures were already in the seventies, and Dean's bruised skin was still cool to the touch.

When Sam got back in the Impala Dean had roused himself just long enough to mumble something about strangling Martha Stewart and doing something unspeakable to that damned bonsai tree, so Sam kept his mind carefully blank. He was bone tired, barely functioning on auto-pilot. He couldn't rest, he wouldn't rest until he got Dean safely to a motel room, somewhere quiet, away from crowds of people. Sam knew he wasn't alert enough to drive the remaining four hours to reach the farmhouse. They needed food, salt for the doors and windows and a motel room, quick, fast and in a hurry. Before they made the turn onto the supermarket parking lot Sam had spotted motel signage down the road. It was close enough.

Dean could hear Sam's heart, the rumble of the Impala's engine, and the sound of the tires on the highway beneath him. It all reminded him of the times when he and John and Sam were out on the road, long winding stretches of highway between motel rooms and backwoods cabins.

Having a regular laundry day was a part of John's discipline for his boys. The clothes they wore might be second hand and a little ragged, but at least they were clean. It wasn't only discipline, it was also a matter of pride.

After Dean had gotten old enough Dad would sometimes send him out to do laundry by himself, especially if the laundromat was in walking distance from wherever they were staying. Dean thought it was pretty damn funny that he had killed his first fugly at the age of nine but his Dad didn't trust him to do laundry until some years later. Grown ups. Go figure.

Dean had his own private ritual on those days, and he never did it in front of John. Or Sam. Whenever he brought Sam with him twelve year old Dean would sit there scowling, daring somebody, anybody, to bother his brother or to say something to either one of them. Dean always put his game face on whenever he was out in public, especially whenever he was with Sam. Whenever Sam had to sit in one place for two long he would always go twitchy. He fidgeted, slid down the hard plastic seat onto the floor, groaning, and he generally made a complete nuisance of himself, pestering Dean until the dryer thankfully stopped and they packed up their clothes and went home. Or where ever home happened to be that day. Sam wasn't a real big fan of laundry day.

But on the rare occasions when he was alone, there was one pleasure that Dean kept to himself. He'd usually go do laundry by himself early in the morning, and John had instilled in him the habit of never appearing defenseless in public, so he didn't do it very often, only when there wasn't anybody else around. Sometimes after he dumped the clothes and the detergent in and turned the washer on, Dean would look around, and if he felt he was safe, he would sit on the floor and push his ear against the slick hard white metal.

He wouldn't close his eyes, though. He never did, but the look in his eyes sometimes became distant and faraway. He listened to the rush of warm water as the machine filled itself, the click of the gears as the machinery inside turned on, and the side of the washer got warm and vibrated. Dean always used warm water to wash everything, and his dad sometimes wondered why the clothes looked a little _too_ faded, but John never said anything. The sound of the water sloshing back and forth, the thump of the agitator as it worked around and around was like listening to his mother's heartbeat, in the womb.

Like now.

_Why are we fighting like this?_

_Shut up, bitch._

_It's my head too. _

_I'm not listening to this. This is a fucking trick._

And the laugh he heard in return was low, rough, and familiar. _You're so full of shit_, that sound meant. He got it. Scorn and affection all rolled into that one small noise.

This wasn't a trick, wasn't some kind of spell or whammy. He was tired, sick, bruised all over, and his mind felt like it had been fucked every which way, but it wasn't that.

He knew.

What the Trickster told him was true, and he couldn't ignore it, couldn't pretend it wasn't true anymore.

It couldn't ignore this voice. He knew it. He recognized it.

It was _his_ voice.

Dean trembled a little as he felt something deep inside him loosen up. It felt like a door opening…

He remembered.

Sammy always laughed and giggled whenever Dean did the trick. Right after Sam came home from the hospital, Mary Winchester sat Dean down on her lap and explained that he was a big brother now, and that she knew he was going to be the very best one ever.

"I know you're going to look after Sam and always take care of him," she said softly, and Dean remembered how it felt when she hugged him and kissed the top of his head.

So, several months later four year old Dean was absolutely thrilled when he discovered he could do something that Sam really enjoyed. Dean didn't feel comfortable doing the trick in front of John or Mary. He didn't know why he felt that way, he just did.

Sam, though, Sam was a different story altogether. Sammy was always a very appreciative audience, even at the tender age of four months. That was when it started. Sam's eyes goggled in amazement, and he'd shake and giggle, and his hand and eye coordination was all shot to hell but he tried to clap his hands anyway. He drummed his tiny heels on the crib's mattress and squealed and laughed like a little maniac.

H_ey, do that again, dude!_ _Again!_

Dean didn't know how he was able to do it…he just thought about it, and it happened.

Sometimes he could hear words whispered inside his head, words he didn't recognize, and when he thought about moving the thing, whether it was a book or a toy, it just happened. He didn't have to touch anything when he did it. He felt happy inside when ever he did it, and Sam obviously thought it was the neatest trick in the world.

He lifted some of the lighter toys, or Sam's baby rattle, just by thinking about it, and he made them spin in the air over Sammy's crib. He made the mobile over Sam's crib move and turn in opposite directions. Once John Winchester walked into the room, just as Dean lifted up Sam's baby rattle. The only thing saving Dean was the fact that he was standing on a small chair right next to Sam's crib. His back was to the doorway and his body was blocking John's view. The rattle tilted in mid-air, and Dean reached out and put his fingers around the handle just as John walked up behind him and hugged him. Dean laughed as his Dad ruffled his hair.

"Hey, Bud," John rumbled fondly. He kissed the top of his eldest son's head and held him tight. "What'cha doing?"

Dean giggled and leaned into the bear hug. "Nothin'."

Sammy laughed.

One day, a couple of weeks before Sam turned six months, Dean tried levitating a large stuffed bear in the air over Sam's bed. The toy was heavier than he was used to, and it was awkward, harder to make the thing dance in the air over Sam's head. Dean lost his concentration and dropped the toy right in Sammy's crib. Sam wasn't hurt, but he _was_ startled, and he cried. Really, really loud. Mary came in and fussed at Dean a little. She picked Sam up, and rocked him to sleep, and Dean got scared. He was ashamed that he'd made Sam cry, afraid that he might have hurt him.

Dean put the part of him that could move things with his mind behind a wall. He didn't trust it, and he didn't trust himself anymore.

Coyote paced back and forth in the darkness.

That first night he yipped and scratched at the wall with his paws.

The night Mary Winchester died, bleeding and burning on the ceiling of Sam's nursery, the wall got even stronger. Coyote gave up trying to get out.

So he waited.

Years later he felt the wall weaken when that taser charge weakened Dean's heart, and Coyote waited. Death wasn't anything new to him. He'd come back from it many times. Coyote conjured up enough strength to keep the boy's failing heart and body alive until Roy LaGrange placed his palm on Dean's pale head. It was hard work; Dean was equally determined that he was going to die. His time had come, and he accepted it. Later on, after the healing, Dean felt guilty that Marshall Hall had died in his place. Dean believed he was worthless He was tormented because he had to stop LaGrange from healing anyone else, and that meant Layla O'Rourke had to die too. Dean saved people; it was not the other way around.

Sometimes Coyote thought the Powers That Be were, well, fucking with him sometimes. He'd never thought like that before, and sometimes he thought that being ensouled inside a human body wasn't all it was cracked up to be.

Dean didn't run, even when the Reaper came towards him and put his hand on the side of his head. He didn't struggle, even as the damn thing started killing him. It ended when Sam Winchester destroyed the black altar that bound the Reaper to Sue Ellen LaGrange, and the Reaper turned on the good reverend's wife and killed her.

Damn brat was good for something, at least, Coyote thought darkly.

He waited.

In the hospital after the car crash the wall was weakened again, but it wasn't enough to free him, yet. Death hovered close nearby, within arm's reach, and Coyote waited. He felt the wall get strong again, and he sat down, reared his head back and howled at the darkness.

Dean dreamed, and he remembered.

Damn, that dead chick Angela could run.

A row of dead plants on the windowsill, and that was when Dean knew that undead bitch was nearby. His eyes flickered over to the closed closet door, and Neal's eye shifted in that direction and then guiltily flickered away. Dean looked at Neal, and a part of him wanted to leave the fool there. Wanted to just turn on his heel and tell Sam, "Let's go," and walk out the office.

The way he had popped silver slugs into her before, Dean kind of doubted she was going to come barreling out of the closet at them. It wasn't like she was Wonder Woman. She wasn't bouncing bullets off her bracelets, and those slugs he'd put into her sure in the hell didn't bounce off her chest. She hadn't liked getting shot, and he was pretty sure she knew there was plenty more where _that_ came from. His pistol was tucked in his waistband, and Dean wasn't at all shy about using it, especially with Sam in the same room.

A part of him, though, a part of him felt that he still had to give this idiot a chance.

A choice. Neal was the reason Angela was walking around past her expiration date. He'd brought her back using an ancient Greek divination ritual. She'd killed her ex-boyfriend Matt the day before and earlier that evening she would have sliced up her room-mate with a pair of scissors if Dean hadn't shot her. Several times.

"Look, Neal, you can come with us. I mean it. Leave with us. Right now." Dean could've knocked Neal out, put him over his shoulders in a fireman's carry, and walked out the door with him like that, but he didn't.

It was all about the choice.

Neal shook his head, stubbornly, stared at the floor. "N-no…"

"All right." Dean leaned forward, right in Neal's face. His voice dropped to a terse whisper. "Get out of here as soon as you can. No sudden moves. Stay cool. Stay calm. Don't make her mad." Dean turned on his heel and walked out and Sam followed.

Dean didn't even wonder afterwards why he didn't feel remorse or sadness, or any emo shit like that when he heard that Neal was found dead next to his car on the campus parking lot. His neck was snapped like a twig. Angela had apparently gotten pretty pissed off at him after the brothers left the office.

It was Neal's choice. It was all about the choice, and sometimes the lessons learned were hard ones. Lethal ones.

_I didn't lie to you, _the voice whispered inside Dean's head._ We've been together the whole time._

Dean remembered.

The rancher was tired. Dean could feel it, could smell the sweat, fear, and greed on the man. It was overpowering, a high thin stench that prickled the insides of Dean's sensitive nose. That smell, so out of place out here up in the mountains, was what attracted Dean to the rancher in the first place.

The man stumbled forwards in the knee deep snow, clutched the gold nugget to his chest. The nugget weighed eighty pounds, extra weight that he didn't need, could have easily dropped as he lurched up the hill towards the cave. Dean placed the nugget right out in the open when the man staggered up the hill. Dean made sure the human could see the gleam of gold in the gathering darkness. The body of the rancher's horse lay at the bottom of the hill, a bullet wound in its forehead, its right front foreleg broken, twisted at an unnatural angle.

The winds picked up, sent swirling sheets of snow curving in the wild air around them. Further on up the hill Dean sat on his haunches, his long ears cocked alertly forward, his long thick tail curved around over his feet, and he watched with hooded eyes. The rancher had a choice: if he wanted to live he could move quickly and get to the cave, take shelter and survive the storm. If he wanted the gold nugget that badly, he could struggle with it and try to make it to the cave.

The rancher was found frozen, dead, clutching a large grey rock several days later.

His choice.

Dean rolled in the grass on the hillside overlooking the cemetery as they buried the man, and he yawned and snapped at the blades of grass as the man's widow and children cried and wailed.

_Two large deli sandwiches, two lasagna plates with side salads, one six pack of beer…_

…_and twelve boxes of salt._

Inside the store Sam was so tired his legs vibrated. His head hurt like a bitch, and his eyes felt gritty when he rubbed at them with one hand. He'd parked the Impala some distance from the store, and he wanted to finish and get back out there before somebody decided to mug or carjack the dude sleeping restlessly in the classic black Chevy Impala.

God, he hated this. All of this. It was all his fault. There was more to McCoy Indiana than met the eye, and he didn't like the fact that he hadn't picked up on it. Sam felt he hadn't done enough research. There was something he'd missed. Ordinarily, Dean was the one that took failure to heart. Dean was the one who internalized everything, wanted to save everyone, no matter what. "We can't save everyone," Sam had told Dean once, and Dean nodded. "Yeah, I know." It was clear from the look on his face that Dean didn't really believe that.

This was different. Sam had come this close last night to losing his last surviving family member, and he was using "If only" to torture himself. If only he'd done more research. If only he hadn't let Dean take point down there in the sewer. If only he'd found the mayor's house sooner….

Images flared thru his mind, one after another. Dean, drugged up and strapped to that damn chair, bruised and slashed all over his body. Dean limp and nearly unresponsive, his head hanging over to one side, his body nearly dead weight as Sam maneuvered him into that gas station restroom to clean him up. Dean's face, very young and defenseless in the backwash of the Impala's headlights out on the highway, his green eyes washed out almost to a pale grey as he told Sam that his family, that _Sam,_ didn't need him, like he needed them, and Sam hated the fact that a demon, that yellow eyed sumbitch, the very same one that murdered Mary Winchester so many years ago, was the one who put that lie in his older brother's head. ….

Black spots flared around the edges of Sam's vision, and he gripped the handle of the shopping cart, hard. His knees buckled and the room did a slow lazy turn around him. Everything blurred into gray, then white…

­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­Dean felt himself getting smaller, lighter, and still he struggled against it.

_Not yet. I have to tell him…_

_I know. _

"Sam? What the hell? Sam?"

"Dude…you're…supposed to be…out in the car." Sam noticed he slurred his words; not a good sign.

"Hey. Hey! Look at me. Sammy! Open your damn eyes. Right now." It was an order, a familiar low growl, a tone of command that Sam had obeyed many times, spoken by the one person in the world that he trusted to have his back, without question.

So Sam opened his eyes. His face felt damp and cold, and everything blurred into everything else. He felt a warm hand on his shoulder, another hand on the side of his face, and he leaned into the touch. His eyes focused and unfocused several times, until he finally got it right.

Dean grinned at him. "Hey, Sammy. So, what'cha doing down here on the floor?"

"I dunno," Sam replied hazily. "Thought I'd…check out…the tile. S'interestin.'"

"I bet it is. You been driving all night, kiddo." Dean's expression grew solemn. "I didn't mean to put you through all this."

Sam stared. The bruises on Dean's face were gone. So was the goose egg on his forehead. He looked pretty damn good, actually. Sam pushed himself up by his elbows and tried to lean forward. Dean held him, gently pushed him back against the shelving. "Hey, you shouldn't be in here," Sam whispered.

Dean shrugged. "I'm okay." He stared at Sam, an intense look, as if he were trying to commit his brother's face to memory. The corners of Dean's mouth quirked upwards. "I love you, Sammy. I always have. You _do_ know that, right?"

"Dean --- "

"Sam, listen to me. I want to stay, but he won't let me."

"Who won't let you?" Sam struggled upright, and Dean stepped back from him. He seemed startled, as though something Sam couldn't see pulled him backwards.

"Sam, they're coming for you." Dean's voice had a peculiar overlay to it, as though there was another voice whispering words Sam couldn't quite hear. "The Ilimu. They're coming for you, you hear me? You get out of here as fast as you can. Call Bobby. Call Ellen…"

"Dean, what -- "

_You can't refuse me in this, _the voice whispered, and this time Sam understood the words.The voice…the voice sounded just like Dean._ I'm awake now. You have to rest._

Dean's expression was sad, desperate. "Sam…I'm sorry." He whispered brokenly. "I'm so sorry…"

Dean sank down to his hands and knees, and Sam tried to get up, but something held him back, pushed him back against the shelving. Dean lifted his head, and God his eyes were too green, too bright. He seemed to stare right thru Sam, and Dean's image wavered. The air around him shimmered, got brighter. Sam was able to move enough to raise one hand up, to shield his eyes. He leaned forward, reached out with his other hand, and it was like the air had thickened, was trying to hold him back, but he kept moving because it was Dean. Dean groaned, deep in his throat. He raised his head and reached out towards Sam.

Their fingertips touched. Sam felt a slight resistance against his skin, and then his fingers slid right thru Dean's outstretched hand.

Sam cursed as something gripped his body and slammed him back in place. He saw the after image of his brother kneeling before him, and that faded, and in Dean's place Sam saw a large coyote. The animal was large, barrel-chested. Big ears, glossy golden brown fur. Impossibly long eyelashes framed bright green eyes that sparkled with intelligence. Even the corners of the muzzle curved up slightly in a smirk. All in all, unmistakably, undeniably Dean.

"Dean? Nooo, Dean --- "

Sam felt hands on his shoulders touching him, and he struck out wildly, blindly. His sight cleared and he looked up, right in the face of a thoroughly freaked out store clerk.

Sam wanted to move faster. He couldn't. It felt like someone had removed his brain and stuffed his head with cotton. His legs were as wobbly as a newborn foal, and minutes later the store manager was looking at him as though he thought that calling the cops was still a mighty fine idea.

The twelve boxes of salt in Sam's shopping cart _was_ enough to raise some eyebrows.

The manager and the clerk helped Sam up, helped him sit down on a wooden bench near the Pharmacy Department, right next to a little old lady who shifted her purse nervously away from him. They practically forced Sam to drink water from a white paper cup. The water felt good and cold going down his raw, sore throat, and he couldn't remember the last time he'd had anything to eat or drink. He waved one hand weakly at them, told them he was okay, that he got those spells sometimes. He asked if anyone had seen his brother, a young dude wearing a brown leather jacket, work boots, and worn blue jeans, and everyone said no.

_Sam…I want to stay, but he won't let me._

Sam knew what he was going to see when he finally staggered out to the Impala. He waved the store clerk away from him. He figured the dude probably thought he was drunk or high, not sick. Sam didn't give a fuck.

Dean was gone. The windows were still rolled up half way, and the doors were still locked. Dean's clothes lay crumpled on the seat, with the blanket. His boots lay on the floor.

Sam felt the world tilt lazily around him, and he managed to unlock the driver's side, felt his ass thump down in the seat, his legs stretched out on the pavement. His right hand shook as he reached out and fisted a handful of Dean's leather jacket. Sam's throat closed up and his eyes stung with tears.

_Dean, I'm sorry. I'm so sorry…_


	8. Chapter 8 Suicide by Fugly

Disclaimer: Don't own Supernatural, darn it! I also did not create Fox River Penitentiary, either; that belongs to Prison Break. Sorry. I only mention the place.

Spoilers: Devil's Trap

Author's Notes: To heather03nmg, and you other kind folks who emailed me privately (y'all know who you are): I think I might have spooked some of you guys with that imagery of Dean apparently turning into a coyote in the last chapter.

Since I caused this confusion, let me take this opportunity to clear it up:

This is **not** the Supernatural version of "The Shaggy Dog." In addition to being a Trickster, Coyote is also a shapeshifter, so the guy does go all furry and four legged sometimes, but I'm focusing mainly on the struggle between him and Dean. Coyote's the part of Dean that Dean doesn't want to deal with, and if you stick with me you'll soon see why. Coyote looks at Dean the exact same way. They are one and the same. They're both stubborn bastards and neither one is going to give an inch.

Think "Sybil", with Sally Field, or better yet, "The Dark Phoenix Saga," and I'm talking about the X-Men classic comic version, not that lousy Bret Ratner X3 movie. This is about two sides of the same soul waging war against each other.

Dean Winchester will **not** be going around sniffing other dogs' butts.

It'll be okay. I promise. Well, sort of. (Hazgarn, I'm just messing with you.)

To BlackIceAngel, and princesspeanut: I'm clearing up some of the stuff you probably wondered about before, in this chapter. I'm sorry it took so long for me to get around to it, and I'll probably give you some new stuff to wonder about, too.

I'm numbering each section in each chapter from now on. Fanfiction dropped the lines I was using to separate the sections.

**Dog Eat Dog**

**Chapter 8: Suicide by Fugly **

**One**

**Singer's Auto Yard**

**South Dakota **

It was damn bad, Bobby Singer thought. Had to be.

Because Sam Winchester sounded like a dead man on the phone.

"Bobby, I lost Dean."

"Wait a minute, Sam. What did you say?"

"Dean's gone. We were on a job over in McCoy, Indiana." That lifeless tone in Sam's voice lifted the hair at the back of Bobby's head. "Animal attacks. Not normal. Dean got hurt and they took him. I got him out."

"Who took Dean?" 

"The cops. To the mayor's house."

There wasn't any need to try to draw this conversation out. There were only two other things Bobby needed to know before he hung up. He crossed the room, fished around in the corner, and tossed a duffel bag onto the table. The damn thing was already packed – holy water, amulets, silver ammo, flares, other items he'd found useful on the hunt.

"Where's Dean now? You said he's gone. Sam, is Dean dead?"

"No. He's gone." Bobby turned to the bookcase and pulled down his copy of the Key of Solomon. He scanned the shelves, then reached up and pulled out six more books, a couple more talismans and charms, and stuffed them all inside the duffel bag alongside the Key.

He held the cordless phone to his ear as he went into the kitchen and pulled plastic bags filled with wolfbane, yew, and other herbs out of the refrigerator. He pulled out a couple of stakes made from rowan wood. These went into the duffel too.

"Okay." Now the last thing: "Sam, where the hell are you now?" 

Four minutes later Bobby Singer was in his truck hauling ass for Vashon, Illinois. Condie, a big black German Shepherd mixed breed, rode shotgun in the truck beside him. She was a damn fine tracker, and ornery as hell.

**Two**

**Roadway Inn**

**Vashon, Illinois**

It was one of the nicest places he had ever been in, but Sam hardly noticed. The desk clerk stared at him; she couldn't help herself. What in the hell could have happened to this tall, handsome kid to age him so much in the last twenty four hours? Sam stared at her, dull-eyed, while she recited the room rates. When she asked him how many beds he needed, he said "two" and she looked past him to see if anyone else was standing there.

She gave him double beds anyway.

Sam didn't even remember handing her the credit card; the next thing he knew he was standing in front of Room 19A. He stared blankly at the nameplate on the door, then at the numbers stamped on the key. It was several moments before he realized that both sets of numbers matched.

He made sure the Impala was locked up and secure. He went back out and checked it. Twice. Dean would kill him if anything happened to his precious baby. Sam carried his laptop and his duffel inside. He brought in Dean's duffel next and laid it gently on the bed nearest the door.

He brought in Dean's clothes and boots last.

Sam didn't salt the windows and doors. He didn't eat anything. He'd left all that at the supermarket down the street.

Sam laid down on his bed, and he hugged Dean's leather jacket like it was a security blanket. He buried his nose in the leather, inhaled Dean's scent. When he closed his eyes, and felt himself drifting off he imagined Dean's deep, smooth voice in the quiet of the room: _Damn,_ _since when did you become such a girl, Samantha?_

Sam knew he was fooling himself.

He could have dealt with Dean bitten. Turned into some creature that howled and snarled at the moon. Dean possessed, Dean driven insane…that was stuff that Sam could wrap his head around, scenarios he could deal with. But _this_…Dean gone, taken from him again, the second time in nearly twenty four hours ---

_I want to stay, but he won't let me…_

--- it was all too much. Sam didn't care if those Ilimu, whatever the hell they were, climbed thru the windows, came thru the doors and walked or slithered right up to the bed and tapped him on the shoulder.

Sam was alone. He was the last and the least, and right at this very moment he just didn't want to go on anymore.

You could call it suicide by fugly, and right now Sam Winchester just didn't give a damn.

**Three**

**Bissette, Illinois**

That was one damn big German Shepherd in the back of that police cruiser. Bobby Gentry cast an appreciative eye at the dog as he rounded the back of the car. Even though it was at rest the dog lifted its head and looked around alertly. It cocked its ears and stared back at Gentry, and it was probably just a trick of the light and shadows, but its eyes seemed awfully black and shiny.

He could appreciate a purebred Shepherd, though; he had two of them at home.

Bobby finished pumping the gas, and walked up to the driver's side to swipe the card the cop had in his hand. "That's a nice looking dog you got there."

"Thanks. He's a good one."

"You're a long way from Crawford, aren't 'cha?

"K9 competition up in Allenville."

"Oh, that's right down the road, near Vashon."

The thing inside John Chambers smiled. "As the crow flies, yeah."

**Four**

**Prosser's Gas 'N' Stop**

**I-20 – Ketchum, Illinois**

It was an out of the way crappy little gas station, the kind where the security cameras didn't work, and the counter should have had some sort of glass barrier but didn't and you took your life in your hands if you worked the night shift, day shift, hell, any damn shift. Sunlight slanted weakly thru the dingy front windows, and the cars that sped by on I-20 were wisely passing the place by, in favor of the MegaGasMart down the road.

James Everett Daley, recently paroled and needing money for his…living expenses, pushed the shotgun in the clerk's face and squinted in the harsh overhead lights at the open cash register drawer.

Forty three fucking dollars and twenty seven cents. He pawed around in the drawer with his broad oversized fingers, as though this had to be some mistake, a joke, and not a very fucking funny one, either.

It was no joke.

Daley's eyes narrowed dangerously, and the clerk could tell his time on earth was numbered. As in minutes. Seconds, even. Daley grinned and steadied the shotgun, just as that stupid bell on the front door jangled and this kid wearing a long brown leather jacket and blue jeans walked in.

Daley pulled his revolver out of his waistband and pushed it into the punk's face. The shotgun never wavered from the clerk. "Get your hands up now, damn it!"

The kid backed up a little, blinked those green eyes of his slowly, and raised his hands. He still seemed awful calm for someone who'd walked in on an armed robbery. Chances were pretty good he wouldn't walk back out.

Neither of them would. The clerk was a tall, skinny drink of water, a sophomore at Southern Illinois University at Edwardsville named Ronnie Eisley, and Ronnie was already mentally kicking himself for not taking the job at the MegaGasMart. His girl friend Yvonne convinced him to take this job, said that everyone had to do their part in supporting small businesses against giant monopolies.

Like the MegaGasMart.

Man, if he survived this did he have a few choice words for _her_.

Daley leaned over, stared past the new kid at the black sedan parked outside. Some old white haired guy sat stiffly in the front passenger seat. Indiana plates. Seemed kind of odd for a kid like this to be pushing a ride like that. He'd have figured this punk for a Mustang, Camaro, or Firebird. Something fast and slick. "That your car?"

The kid didn't answer. He tilted his head to one side, stared Daley up and down, and Daley didn't like that look. What, was this bastard gay or something? It was like Daley was being judged, measured for something, and it made him want to smash that pretty face in.

Not yet.

"I said, that your car?" Daley grated, and the dangerous, low tone in his voice finally seemed to get this kid's attention.

"Yeah."

"Looks like a cop car. You a cop?"

The kid smirked. "No."

"Let me see some ID," Daley said stupidly.

The kid quirked an eyebrow at him in disbelief. "Wait a minute. You're the one holding up a gas station, and you want to see _my_ ID?"

Those smartass remarks stopped coming out of that pretty mouth when Daley thumbed the revolver's hammer back.

Well, to hell with the ID. Daley was six feet six and weighed three hundred, easy. Anytime he couldn't handle a couple of punk kids and one old sugar daddy was the day he should hang it up, head on back to Fox River Penitentiary and knock on the door so they'd let him back in to finish up some really hard prison time.

"Who's the old white haired guy in the car?"

That cocky attitude vanished immediately. "That's -- that's my dad. Please, mister, just take my wallet. I got money. Credit cards. You don't have to bother him. He's been sick lately." And there was a touch of fear in those wide green eyes at last.

Daley liked that.

The sound of the shotgun going off was louder than it is in the movies. Ronnie Eisley's body hit the floor behind the counter with a heavy thump. His resentment against his girl friend would have to wait until she caught up with him in the afterlife.

Pretty boy stared at Daley.

"You, me, and Papa are going on a little trip." The revolver never moved from the center of the kid's face. Daley grinned as he stepped back, placed the shotgun on the counter and scooped up the forty three dollars and change. It was an insult to a professional like him, but, hey, a dollar was a dollar. "If you're nice, and I mean _real_ nice to me, I won't hurt you. Much. I might just let you and Daddy go. I might."

None of that mattered anymore. Those green eyes shifted, turned shiny pitch black, and the kid was suddenly right up in Daley's face. He slapped the revolver out of Daley's hand with one hand and the other hand curled tightly around Daley's throat. He was five inches taller, a hell of a lot heaver, yet he was easily lifted off his feet. The heels of Daley's work boots kicked against the scuffed front counter wall. His eyes bulged and he flailed wildly, groping for the shotgun, and the kid laughed, a low, rough sound. Daly's fingers brushed against the gun butt, and it was yanked out from under his hand by something he couldn't see.

The kid cocked his head to one side. "Geez, dude, I'm _so_ glad you're not gonna hurt me," he drawled mockingly. "Was it as good for you as it was for me?"

Daley crashed into the refrigerated soda case on the far wall so hard he was barely aware of the sound his spine made as it snapped in two. Behind his back glass shattered and plastic bottles of soda and water exploded, fell out and bounced all around him. He slid brokenly down the shelves in slow motion, his feet and legs hanging limply out of the case.

He heard the front door bell jangle thru the gray haze that was settling over him, and he was barely able to make out the kid as he stood there. Damn punk held the door open and several mangy stray dogs wandered in, along with a cat or two. They stared intently at Daley. They padded along the dirty tile floor and made a beeline straight for him.

When the first dog came up to him, reared up and placed its paws on his shoulders and pressed its cold muzzle to his gasping mouth, Daley couldn't even scream.

Several minutes later the Ilimu posing as Dean Winchester walked out of the gas station followed by the newly possessed body of one James Everett Daley. There were thirteen Ilimu crowded in the space beneath Daley's skin, and his body moved in a flat footed shamble. It swung its arms out to the side, like a drunk imitating the way a chimpanzee walks. Daley's face rippled; something dark slid just below the surface of his skin. He shambled along to the rear door of the car and after fumbling with the door handle for some moments he was finally able to figure out how to open the back door and slide in the back seat.

The Ilimu imitating Dean Winchester scowled and shook his head as he unlocked the door and slid behind the wheel. He started the engine and backed the sedan out and smoothly merged with the traffic on the highway. A sound from the back seat made him glance in the rear view mirror at Daley's black eyes. He used Winchester's face extremely well; the death glare he directed towards them in the rearview mirror made them settle down, and Daley's eyes went back to a dazed washed out brown color.

He didn't have time to coddle or baby-sit these fools, but there was no way around it. It was shaping up to be a long chase, and unless you entered the body of a bird of flight to make up the distance it was best to stick to humans until you got close enough for the kill. You could drive a car if you had a human body, something these idiots had forgotten in the thrill of the chase. He was on a tight schedule, and stopping to pick up stragglers like these could only slow him down.

If he saw any more idiots like these at the side of the road, tribe or no tribe, he was very tempted to just run them over and keep on going. Besides, he wanted to be there _before_ the brothers were surrounded; otherwise, what was the point?

He liked the cars these humans drove, and he could certainly appreciate the highways and interstates. Good escape routes, and plenty of cars and humans to jump to. Malls were good hunting grounds, and a beast with a face and body like Dean Winchester's could do a lot of damage.

After the hunt was over he planned on doing just that.

If he had his way there would have been a thinning of the ranks, a culling of the herd, so to speak. He didn't have much tolerance for the inexperienced and downright stupid, and Lucifer knows demons were like humans, and they could be both. He glanced at the older white haired one sitting in the passenger seat and suddenly felt like ripping the old one's head off. He couldn't. There was such a thing as respecting your elders, and that was something he did grudgingly.

Very grudgingly.

"This is a chance for you to redeem yourself." The young one's tone was harsh, disrespectful. "There were two of you down in that sewer, you and your bitch, and the two of you couldn't even take down one human."

The older one's eyes shifted to his lap. The one wearing the Winchester skin was hundreds of years old, but the white haired one was even older than that. The other knew that Winchester's face and body made the elder nervous. He didn't know why, and he didn't give a damn.

"He…he has power." The old one knew it was a mistake as soon as he said it. He closed his eyes. The young one shook his head and made a disgusted sound deep in his throat. "Do you realize how pathetic you sound? Do you?" His voice was a low angry snarl and he gripped the steering wheel so tightly his knuckles turned white.

The old one saw himself back in the sewer, on all fours, watching as Dean Winchester lunged for the pistol on the floor. He didn't know why he didn't just reach out and claw the boy then, but …he hung back. Foolish. Stupid. Human green eyes locked on his reddish orange ones, and that split second gave the hunter time to shoot. The darkness down there gave no cover.

The old one yelped as silver rounds hit him in the chest, head and shoulder. The female Ilimu inside the stray dog snarled and ripped the skin on Winchester's back with her claws. The boy bit back a scream of terror and rage, and the old one heard yelling and roaring and gunshots. When his vision cleared he saw its mate lying on top of the hunter. The old one limped forward when he saw the human's hand twitch.

He could still rip out the bastard's throat.

Winchester's eyes opened, and something more than human looked out at the world, wide-eyed, startled. Those green eyes nearly glowed in the dark. The hunter raised his arm jerkily, as though he'd forgotten how, and he put his hand on the female's forehead. Thick oily black smoke boiled out of the coarse black fur, lifted up into the gloom and broke apart into curling wisps of dead air.

Dean Winchester's eyes closed, and his arm dropped limply back down to his side.

The old one backed away. He ran, limping, stumbling.

The others had no respect for the elder, because they thought he was a coward. He knew one thing, though: arrogance will get you killed.

And if arrogance killed the Ilimu wearing the hunter's face, the elder hoped that he would be around to see it.

**Five**

**Vashon, Illinois**

Maureen Reddington knew she was special._ He_ told her so, in her dreams. He understood her, encouraged her, even when everyone around her told her that she was a freak, a monster. His yellow eyes flashed when he told her that she had to leave her family, that her mother and father had already signed the commitment papers and that room in the mental hospital was ready and waiting for her. That day Maureen picked up her backpack and didn't look back.

Before she left, though, she showed her parents just how much of a "freak" she really was. She used her special gift, and she slipped inside her mother's and father's heads for a little chat.

When the story hit the news later that day the news anchors called it a murder-suicide.

Well, she'd never really liked her parents anyway.

The yellow eyed man came to her in a dream last night, told her that she had to call off work as receptionist at the doctor's office the next day. There was something she needed to do, someone she had to see, but he wanted her to use a gentle touch on this one. He was special, just like she was, but he was tired and confused. He needed to be protected, from himself, and from others.

She didn't exactly understand about the bags of salt, but she didn't question.

Sam Winchester didn't move when the key slid into the door lock. He stirred a little, but Sam's sleep was deep, black and dreamless. Partly due to exhaustion, partly due to grief.

Maureen moved quietly. She'd "convinced" the desk clerk to give her the key. She stared at Sam, and she very gently pushed him deeper into sleep. Once the connection between them was made, she very quietly laid salt lines at the windows, and as she did, images swept into her mind.

She poured the salt down straight out of the bag, and tried to ignore the unpleasant way her skin tingled when stray grains of salt touched her skin.

She finished up quickly, laid one last salt line at the door.

She kept the room key.

Just in case.

Maureen walked across the parking lot and got into the front seat of the County Cab parked there. The cabbie's name was Dmitri Landowski, a recent immigrant from Poland, but his eyes had a certain yellow glint behind the dark shades. She opened her mind to him, and he smiled.

The eldest was gone. Swept away by this power inside him.

Imagine that.

The next time he saw John Winchester down in Hell, he'd have to tell him, _John, your boys continually amaze me._

It was a shame about the older brother. The yellow eyed one had plans for him, too, but those plans were fairly simple: agony, blood and slow torture, ending with Dean Winchester screaming to be put out of his misery, begging for death. Over a year ago Dean shot and killed the demon's son, shot him dead with a bullet from that damn Colt. The day before the demon's daughter was exorcised from the body of Meg Masters, sent screaming and cursing back to Hell, and Dean was responsible for that, too.

The daughter clawed her way up from Hell about a month ago, and after she was driven out of Sam Winchester's body she wandered aimlessly, angry, rageful. She didn't care about the master plan anymore, so he had no use for her.

He had plenty of use for Samuel. He had even grown fond of the boy.

He shielded Samuel in the tunnel from the humans in McCoy. He masked the boy's presence so he was invisible to their feeble senses. The old Ilimu was no problem. He nearly injured himself all over again trying to get away.

The yellow eyed one had a special affinity with the wind and with weather patterns. He was the wind near the highway that night, as that hawk swirled and looped overhead, and he heard its thoughts when the damn thing moved towards Sam with its claws out. He wrapped himself around the bird, trapped it inside the flesh and feathers, and slammed it headfirst into a tree.

Ilimu. His lip curled in disgust. Tribal bastards. Several of his special children years ago had fallen prey to Ilimu hunters, so naturally the demon struck back. Examples were made on both sides. Samuel Winchester was his, always had been. He was the brightest of the demon's precious few.

He would protect his investment, no matter what.

**Six**

**Norwood State Hospital**

**Norwod, Kansas**

He missed the feel of sand underneath his feet. The floors here were too white, too slick underneath his bare feet. Thick wire screens on the windows, and that made him feel trapped. He hated that feeling, but compared to being confined behind that dark wall, this wasn't _that_ bad.

This place was too white, too sterile. Even the people in charge wore white, and they growled all the time. He stared blankly at them, and he did what he was told. _Stand up, stand still, move over here._ The others like him were dressed in blue, and some of them cried and screamed. Some of them sat at the tables and bumped their heads repeatedly against the tabletops. Others, like that tall, shaggy haired kid, just sat slumped over in the corner and stared blankly.

Some of them, though, were different. Some of them had this barely concealed energy inside of them, and he wondered why the ones in charge didn't see it. Too stupid, maybe, or too dull.

That was something he could use.

There was one in particular he had to watch out for. She was a blue. He sat on the floor in a corner of the rec room, just watching everybody else, trying to decide how to start. She was small and dark haired, and her grey eyes were too light and pale. She walked right up and kneeled down in front of him, and she stared at him. He stared back. She didn't touch him; she seemed to know better. "So pretty," she muttered to herself. She cocked her head to one side, and a slight smile pulled at her lips. "Such a pretty boy," she cooed. "Green eyes. Eyes are the windows of the soul, and the two of you only have one soul between you."

He blinked slowly. Damn, was it _that_ obvious?

_Son of a bitch._

She seemed to flinch slightly when he stared hard right back at her, but then she smiled and stood up. He watched her as she walked across the room, and he saw it when she glanced down at the floor. A brown leather wallet stuffed with cash appeared out of thin air on the floor to her right. She looked up and glanced over at two of the orderlies in white, and they both spotted the wallet at the same time.

The fight was on. Fists flew and in a matter of moments the two in white were rolling around on the floor. More whites swarmed in to break it up, and some of the more stupid blues tried to get in on it, too. He sat there and watched.

He nearly laughed out loud.

Ah, he knew a trick when he saw one.


	9. Chapter 9 All Freaks Freak Alike

Disclaimer: Don't own 'em. (now you _know_ I gotta say this _every_ chapter.)

Spoiler: Home, Devil's Trap, Born Under a Bad Sign

Warnings: Cursing, Dean-thumping, angst, and this time it's DruggedCoyote/Dean. I didn't want to delay posting this until I finished the other chapter, so here ya go.

A/N: I know you guys will let me know what you think! I want to thank everyone again for your reviews. You're really helping me as a writer. I didn't mean to confuse anybody, and I promise that from now on, I won't, unless I'm _deliberately_ trying to confuse you. (Heeheehee)

Dean made Coyote use the name Bon Scott during that last interview with Lockridge. Bon Scott co-wrote and was the lead singer on the AC/DC song "Dog Eat Dog."

Summary: It's Dean versus Coyote, and damn, is that eldest Winchester boy pissed….

**Dog Eat Dog**

**Chapter 9: All Freaks Freak Alike**

**One**

Oblivion looked a lot like home in Lawrence, Kansas.

Dean stood there blinking in the noonday sun. He shaded his eyes, took a step back and craned his neck upwards. This was somebody's idea of a cruel joke.

The house looked the same as it did when he was a kid, looked the same as it did when he saw it a year ago. No way in hell he was going to go inside. He knew this was wrong, had the hunter's instinct against being trapped, closed up behind those walls, no matter how familiar they might seem.

He and Sam had gone back to Lawrence last year, when a poltergeist had threatened the young mother and her two kids who'd moved into the place. Sam had one of his visions, and insisted on going back, and he seemed shocked when Dean told him that he'd sworn never to go back to Lawrence.

He did. Had to. He sure in the hell couldn't let Sammy go back there alone, now could he?

Dad wrote like freaking Yoda in the journal, but they were able to find out that John Winchester consulted psychic Missouri Moseley after Mary Winchester's death. They tried to exorcise the spirit with Missouri's help, but it was too strong, too evil, and the spirit of Mary Winchester appeared. She destroyed herself and the spirit when it tried to harm her boys.

Where ever this place was, it wasn't Lawrence, Kansas. Dean was sure of it.

He heard a slight noise behind him and he spun around, cursed under his breath. He didn't have his Desert Eagle in his waistband or his Kershaw knife in his boot. What he saw standing behind him made him stop and stare.

"Dean?" A low rumble of a voice that tightened Dean's insides, made his heart ache. It was a knee jerk reaction, and he knew it. Just the thing to sucker him in, make him drop his guard. Dean felt rage boil up inside him instead.

He took a step backwards, towards the house. Standing with his back to the place gave him a bad feeling, so he stepped sideways, angled himself so that he could keep an eye on the house and whatever this was standing in front of him.

John Winchester regarded Dean warmly, with a calm, relaxed expression, which was totally fucking wrong. The skin around his eyes crinkled slightly as he smiled.

Dean's eyes narrowed. He shook his head. "Son of a bitch…"

"It's good to see you, son."

"You're not my Dad. Stop pretending you are." His right hand balled up into a fist. He stepped forward before he could even catch himself.

John put his hand out, palm up, fingers spread. "Dean." The sound of that voice made Dean sway a little. He could feel his body relax, his fists unclench. "Take my hand, son. You need to come inside. You're tired. You need to rest."

He very nearly did._ God, _he thought to himself_. I'm so tired. So fucking tired. I can't…I can't do this anymore… _

He looked into those brown eyes, eyes he never thought he'd see ever again. "Dad…"

_You can't refuse me in this. I'm awake now. It's time for you to rest…_

That voice—_his_ voice—echoed in his own ears, and Dean blinked and stepped back.

"Fuck you," Dean snarled, and John's expression was patient, sorrowful. Dean backed up. He kept his eyes on John Winchester's double. It stood there in front of the house and watched him go.

Dean walked away from the house. The neighborhood was empty. There were houses, but no people. No traffic. It was a dead zone, and as far as he could tell, he was the only living thing there. It was like the Twilight Zone or Outer Limits or something, only this sucked big-time because he was the poor schmuck caught up in that weird crap. He couldn't change the channel on this one, and Lord knows he wanted to. He couldn't walk away from this, either.

Something would let him get only so far and then he'd feel this cold chill ripple thru his body and he'd find himself right back in the front yard, standing underneath that huge tree.

When he started walking in the opposite direction, after what he figured was a mile, maybe a mile and a half, it happened again.

He didn't know how long he'd been there. The sun never set, and the sky was always this picture perfect deep blue. Everything was all jacked up, and he couldn't trust any of it. He never saw his Dad's doppelganger again. Damn thing was probably lurking around somewhere. It would have been so easy, just to…take that hand, feel those strong, broad fingers grip his hand, allow himself to be led into the house.

Not to have to fucking think anymore. He _was_ tired. Now that the adrenaline rush was winding down Dean felt a little weak in the knees. He felt like taking his frustration, and hell, yeah, if he was honest, his _fear_ out on something. Smash a window, kick down a door, anything. Something. This was some sort of supernatural limbo crap, and to say that Dean hated shit like that would have been an understatement.

And for that Coyote bastard to use his Dad against him, to try to sucker him in even further using John Winchester's image, well, that Trickster sumbitch was going to pay hell for that one.

Dean was only human, after all. Who could blame him if he let off some steam, broke down, lost it momentarily? After all he'd been through, who would blame him?

_Only human?_ Now_ that_ was a fucking laugh. Two days ago he'd thought he was only human. Now, he didn't know what the hell he was, what the fuck he was supposed to be.

Maybe he'd had some clue, deep down inside, when he and Sam talked about that case back at the college weeks ago. Dean couldn't ever remember actually admiring a fugly before.

Not ever.

He and Dad –or he and Sam – would come in, interview survivors, hit the books, track the fugly, and waste it. Salt and burn the carcass, if necessary, and that would be the end of the story.

But this…

"I admire your style," he'd told the Trickster. "Really, I do…"

And now he knew why.

All freaks freak alike.

"I can't live like the things I hunt," he'd told Sam on several occasions in the past year.

That was one chick flick moment Sammy definitely didn't want to hear.

_Well, guess what, Deano?_ God, the universe, or whatever gave a sly wink. _You might have to re-think that policy…_

After walking off in another direction and finding himself back in the front yard under the tree for what seemed to be the twentieth time, Dean walked down to the corner house and sat on the low stone wall in front. He rubbed his hands down his neck, thru his hair. His head hurt. The muscles in his back and neck were so tight it felt like the muscles were screaming in pain.

_He_ felt like screaming.

Felt like lying down on the ground, curling up in a tight little ball, and screaming. Screaming until his lungs burst, until he went hoarse and deaf from the sound. Felt like screaming at Heaven and Earth for the fucked up tricks that had been played on him and his family.

Because he remembered now. Remembered how it felt to be able to move things just by thinking about them. Remembered how good it made him feel, kind of nervous at first, but good, like he was_ meant_ to do it. It felt…_right_. And as far as Dean was concerned, that was just another dirty trick in a fucking line of dirty tricks played.

Because…

_If I can do these things, then why couldn't I save my family?_

_Why couldn't I save Mom? Dad?_

He felt the scream well up in the back of his throat. His chest and throat hitched with the effort to choke it back, because Dean knew once he started screaming, he wouldn't be able to stop. For some reason he also knew that the sound would attract that thing with his Dad's face, and he wouldn't be able to fight it off. He knew that he'd let the damn thing help him up, walk him back, stumbling, back down the street to that prison that looked like his old house.

Dean knew once he crossed the doorstep of that place, he'd be lost. It was a prison inside a prison. Coyote's payback for all those years behind the wall.

There was only one reason why he kept himself together. One reason and one reason only.

Sam.

He couldn't forget the stricken look on Sam's face in that supermarket as everything went bright around them. He remembered trying to reach out for his brother and not being able to touch him. Dean felt his body stretch, and twist, his balance change as he went from two legs to four. Then even that was gone, and he found himself standing in the front yard of their old home in Lawrence, blinking dazedly in the noonday sun.

He had to hold on for Sam. He had to hold on for his brother.

Sam had a chance for normal. When this was all over, and he was sure it would be over, one day, one way or another, Dean wanted Sam to have normal. Sam deserved it. Dean knew _he_ was a freak. He wasn't meant to live to a ripe old age. He'd cheated death twice in his life already, and the last time was supposed to be the _very_ last time. It would have been, until John Winchester made that damn deal to save him….

Dean was already past his expiration date. He knew that, and his Dad's sacrifice bothered the hell out of him, no pun intended. Sam, though, Sam was a whole 'nother story altogether.

Sam could have a life. A normal life.

Dean didn't trust normal. Hadn't trusted normal in over twenty two years.

Fucker was too fragile.

It could be taken from you in a heartbeat.

Even though he'd saved a lot of people through the years, Dean privately doubted that any of them would remember him, doubted that any of them would mourn if they heard that Dean had died. Sam would remember_ him_, though. Blood was thicker than water, so they said. Sam was the reason he _couldn't_ give up, not until all this was over.

Dean had no way of knowing how much time had passed, out in the real world. He knew Sam wasn't dead. Not yet. Dean would've felt that, in his gut, in his soul, but he knew the countdown clock was winding down. Those things, those Ilimu, were hunting, and it was a sure bet they'd been on their trail for the last twenty hours, at least. If what happened to the victims back in McCoy was any guide, these things liked to hunt, play with their victims, and then tear them limb from limb.

He was stuck in here, and Sam was out there, alone.

The only way Coyote would help would be if Dean had the advantage. If he could find that somehow, have the bastard by the balls, up on tiptoe, whimpering, Dean could get out of here. He could help Sam.

The hell of it was, he couldn't figure this one out, couldn't figure a way to get the upper hand. Coyote had tucked him away inside the mind and body they shared, as easily as a person might slip a piece of folded paper into their pocket. How the hell do you fight something like that?

His mind worried those thoughts like a wolf on a 'roid rage.

The sky overhead darkened. Clouds formed, boiling and churning thru the air. The wind picked up, howling thru the trees. Dean finally looked up, startled, as the first heavy raindrops pelted him around his head and shoulders.

"Will you give me a fucking break? Stop raining on me, damn it!"

And it did.

Just like that.

It went in reverse, the clouds folding in on themselves, the wind slipping away thru the trees. He could almost see the rain fall upwards, back into the sky.

Dean sat there, staring upwards. Then he grinned. A little.

He made it rain several times, just to be sure. He imagined kicking Coyote's ass, for starters. Dean made it rain, and then he made it stop.

So he did have _some_ influence. Some.

_Let's see how much_, he thought with a grin.

**Two**

He kept a low profile, and he didn't say a word, and that was exactly the way Coyote liked it. He was John Doe 87, picked up by Norwood, Kansas police that morning, wandering along the highway, mumbling to himself. He tolerated being handled roughly by the cops, and after they processed him and put him in the holding tank he sat in an empty corner and tried to go to sleep. That was one thing he disliked about being human, despite his other, special advantages—the need to sleep, and eat. He was tired. Putting Dean Winchester away and keeping him there had taken a lot out of him.

One of his neighbors got a little grabby while Coyote sat there asleep, and when the guy's hand slid up Coyote's thigh he woke up, eyes blazing, snarling, and lunged at the dude. When the cops came around because of the noise Mr. Glad Hands was cowering in a far corner, slobbering and whimpering.

The general consensus of the folks in the holding tank went like this: "Dude just went crazy, boss. Off in the head. Nope. Didn't see nuthin.' Not a damn thing."

After the cops left, Coyote had one side of the cell all to himself.

Dr. Alan Lockridge evaluated Coyote right after he arrived at Norwood State Hospital that afternoon. Coyote didn't have much to say. He did what they asked him to, when they asked him to. There was something…off…in his eyes that told the white shirts that he wasn't quite right, but he never said a word. Didn't protest, didn't struggle, didn't yell or curse.

Lockridge liked to pry inside his patients' heads. He wasn't all that interested in helping them; he used them so he could write papers in medical journals. He liked to show off his more unusual cases to his peers. Coyote had his number from the moment he laid eyes on him. Lockridge was just Coyote's type: high and mighty.

So he kept his face blank, and said he didn't remember who he was and where he'd been before. He answered questions with "yes" and "no", and that was when he decided to answer at all.

The interview didn't last that long, and Lockridge seemed disappointed.

It was time to leave that other life behind, time to be what he was in the past. It was a mistake asking the Powers That Be to ensoul him in this body, but what was done was done, and there was no sense in crying about it. He could've made his transition into the sunlight a little easier on Dean. Could have, but he didn't. Coyote was feeling little mean after being walled up for over twenty two years. So if the kid freaked out, got mindfucked by all those thoughts and sensations that Coyote himself took for granted, well, tough shit.

And as for Sam Winchester? There was no pull in that direction. None at all. Sam was the reason Coyote had been walled up all those years, and Coyote didn't like him. Not at all. Couldn't see why Dean had stuck with the brat for this long, either.

It _was_ true that Coyote wanted a family. He'd been lonely, had wandered the desert Southwest feeling this aching black hole growing wider and deeper inside of him, and that was something he hated to admit. Coyote was pretty sure that John and Mary Winchester would have freaked out if four year old Dean had shown them the things he could do.

Coyote could hear the psychiatrist now: "Mr. and Mrs. Winchester, your son Dean thinks he's the incarnation of the Trickster Coyote. Now, I recommend a course of heavy duty psychotropic drugs, and electroshock treatment would be good for a start. Just sign here, and we'll get him well in no time…"

And that was what gave Coyote the idea to come to Norwood State Hospital.

**Three**

_We're not in Kansas anymore, Toto._ Dean watched the funnel cloud rotate lazily in the street in front of the corner house. For a moment he wished Sam was here. He could imagine his brother leaning up against the stone wall, his hands jammed into his jacket pockets as he looked up at the damn thing. _Dude. Seriously?_

They'd both seen weirder things.

_Really. _

When he was little Dean remembered sitting in a motel room just outside Huntsville, Alabama, waiting for Dad to come home from a hunt. "The Wizard of Oz" was on TV. Dean had to tape a coat hanger and some tin foil to the antenna to get the reception even up to lousy, but he and Sam were able to fill in the gaps. They sat there eating potato chips out of the bag and watching Judy Garland in that pinafore holding that damn picnic basket, with that goofy little dog at her heels. Eleven year old Dean wondered if there actually was such a thing as a flying monkey. If there were, he and his Dad were going to hunt those suckers down.

They'd already nailed a witch or two by this time, but the one in the movie looked like a beauty queen compared to the ones they'd hunted.

Dean stepped off the stone wall, and he nervously scrubbed his hands on his blue jeans. His ears popped slightly from the pressure as he stood there, ten feet away from a twister, for God's sake. He bit his lips and had a moment of doubt as his rational mind balked—_Uh, dude, are you sure you should be doing this?_ -- but…

Either it worked, or it didn't.

Whether it was from nervousness or just the desire to protect his eyes, he closed his eyes as he walked thru the cloud wall.

He felt a slight pull at his hair, skin and clothes. That was it. The center was calm. He could feel it. He stood in the middle of the damn thing, and opened his eyes, and he laughed. Swirling dark gray cloud wall all around him, and when he looked up, he could see all the way up the funnel to that fake blue sky.

He raised his arms, threw back his head and laughed like hell, and the damned thing dissipated like a gentle summer breeze.

It reminded him of the first time he got behind the wheel of the Impala. He was two years old, and the feel of the steering wheel under his small fingers just…felt..right. That time he knew good and well not to turn the key, not to start the car. Not yet. His feet couldn't reach the pedals, but when they did, everyone was going to take a step back.

He'd be rolling.

Just like now.

He really expected a wall to come slamming down. He expected Coyote to make a move on him, to jerk him out of there, to wall him up.

Dean expected a reaction.

And he was surprised and more than a little wary when he didn't get one.

**Four**

The female Trickster kept her distance, and Coyote realized that she might have felt that he was a trespasser on her territory. Whenever he did see her she nodded respectfully and he nodded back. He watched with an appreciative eye as she targeted some of the white shirts, but then he realized he was feeling a little bored. Restless.

He didn't sense the female when he first entered the place, and he should have. He guessed his senses were dulled by years of disuse.

He was wrong.

He was taken to Lockridge's office again a few hours after the first interview. Coyote sat on the floor in the corner in the rec room, and the next thing he knew it was a white out. Sniegoski stood in front of him. Coyote looked up and stared at him hard, pushed out the suggestion at Sniegoski's broad slab of a face _--Leave me the hell alone—_

And nothing happened.

Sniegoski grinned. He leaned down, got right in Coyote's face. "That Jedi mind crap doesn't work on me, boy," and Coyote blinked. Sniegoski must've seen something in his eyes, though, because he laughed again. "Doc Lockridge wants to see your freaky ass, again," and he reached out and clamped his oversized hand around Coyote's bicep. The grip tightened painfully. Coyote groaned, and Sniegoski's grin got even wider. "So come with, and do it quietly, or I will pound you into the floor, bitch."

Coyote went. The interview went the same as before, but it didn't last as long.

Twenty minutes later he sat in the cafeteria looking at a bowl of something that looked suspiciously like chili. It was kind of hard to tell. The food was crappy, and he briefly wondered how the hell they could fuck up perfectly good food like that. Seemed to be a universal law: hospital food is crappy. He'd seen enough of the stuff Dean refused to eat when he was hospitalized for long periods of time.

Whatever was in the bowl tasted bland and lumpy and the crackers were stale. The orange juice was way too sweet, but since Tricksters are freaks for sugar it was the only part of the meal he really liked. He knew they were watching everyone and he tried to pretend he ate because they expected him to. He ate because he was hungry.

He got up, and put up his own tray, and when he turned around he noticed Sniegoski standing over by the door. Petrie walked up and they both stood there, scanning the room. Together they were the two meanest white shirts around. They handled the patients way rougher than they needed to, and they taunted the blues, tormented them every chance they got.

They were dicks. Before he left he was going to give them something to remember him by.

Lockridge, too.

Coyote put one foot in front of the other, and that was when he realized that something just wasn't right. His head felt fuzzy all of a sudden, like someone had reached in and filled it with cotton, and his body wasn't working like it should have. He hit the floor in an awkward sprawl, right near one of the empty tables. His vision blurred, and the room did a sluggish, lazy turn around him. Petrie and Sniegoski moved towards him in slow motion. A soft grey haze settled down over him, and Coyote could hardly keep his eyes open.

They stood over him, and Petrie smirked as he knelt down and raised Coyote's eyelids with rough fingers. _Don't touch me_, Coyote thought to himself, and that was all he could do. He couldn't raise his arms. He couldn't move. "Aw, they always look so cute when they're like that, don't they?" Petrie drawled.

Sniegoski laughed humorlessly as he kicked Coyote's hip with his boot. Yeah, that'll leave a mark. He saw no reason to be gentle with any of these freaks. "Damn, he should've face-planted into his food tray while he was sitting down. Must have one hell of a metabolism. Oh, well," he shrugged. "Let's get this sumbitch up."

They lifted him up roughly, by his arms and shoulders, and he was like a giant, boneless doll in their hands. In the back of his dazed mind Coyote heard a familiar, rough chuckle.

_Sometimes the magic works…and sometimes…it doesn't. _

**Five**

It wasn't a chair this time. It was a bed. They dumped him onto it like a sack of dirty laundry and buckled the restraints tight around his wrists and ankles. Coyote lay spreadeagled on his back. His words were slurred and his mouth didn't feel right.

"..not…again…not…again…"

He flinched when he felt something brush across his forehead. Fingers slowly traced down the side of his jaw. He pulled weakly against the straps.

Lockridge.

"How are you feeling, John?" Lockridge's tone was light, friendly, as though he was talking about the weather, or baseball scores. "I know John's not your real name. It's alright, you can tell me. What's your name?"

All Coyote could do was make sounds deep in his throat.

"I want to help you, John." Lockridge walked around the bed. His fingers ran down Coyote's shoulder and the side of his belly. "You didn't have much to say the first time we talked, so we slipped some meds into your food. Just enough to help you…loosen up. You can tell me anything, and I won't judge you. I'm here to help you, that's all. We all are. No one here wants to hurt you."

"What's your name?"

Coyote gasped, tugged against the restraints. He felt Dean Winchester emerge, felt himself slip sideways, pulled back under, just enough. Coyote was still aware, and when he felt his mouth move he couldn't stop himself.

"…Bon…Scott…"

"Bon Scott?"

"...yess…"

"Tell me about yourself."

"M'a freak."

"Oh, really?"

"They don't…need me like…like I need…them…"

"Who's 'they'? Who told you that, Bon?"

"…my…Dad…"

Lockridge was suddenly glad they were videotaping this session. He couldn't have kept up if he were writing notes. He gripped the bed railing to keep his hands from shaking.

"How do you feel about yourself?"

"M'worthless.."

"I see. Did your Dad tell you that?"

Dean made Coyote shake his head slowly. "…nooo…Sam did…"

"Sam?"

"…little…brother…hit..me…"

"Your younger brother Sam told you that you're worthless."

"…don't wanna…talk 'bout this…I don't…" Coyote shook his head slowly, from side to side. He tried to get away, and Dean tightened his grip.

"Well, you want to get well, don't you?"

"…no…can't…"

"Well, why would you say that? Do you get along with Sam?"

"…he left …but he came back…he'll… leave again…they all do…"

"Why's that, Bon?"

"…M'a freak…everyone who loves me... leaves me…"

"Where's your Dad now?"

"…in…hell…"

"What?"

"…made a deal…demon…my life…for his…soul…"

Toward the end Dean slipped away, back inside, and he let Coyote come back all the way. He pulled weakly at the straps, and his voice was hoarse and desperate. Animals hate being trapped, and demigods are no exception; he would have chewed the straps off, but he couldn't reach them. Coyote chanted, old words he'd nearly forgotten, in the old tongue, and it didn't matter. He tried to gather up enough energy to leave that place, and nothing worked. Those words had worked before in the past. They didn't work now.

**Six**

Lockridge sat in his leather chair back in his office, and he tried to settle down. His hands trembled as he handled the videotape. What was on this tape was gold. Pure gold. He had the same jittery, slightly giddy feeling that a treasure hunter must feel when they're unearthed some elusive fortune. Lockridge imagined racehorse trainers felt the same way, when they realize that they have the next Big Horse, the next Ruffian or Secretariat in their barns.

In his fifteen years at Norwood he had had a few noteworthy cases. The last one was that woman with the multiple personalities six years ago. Fifty seven personalities and counting, and he would still have been riding that gravy train if the ungrateful bitch hadn't killed herself. One of her personalities had stolen a rope from somewhere, knotted one end around her throat, tied the other end to a pipe set high in the wall down in the basement, and stepped off into eternity.

Oh, well.

Healthcare nowadays was a cut-throat business. Psychiatry was like Rodney Dangerfield; it got no respect at all. And those bastards in the medical journals, well, forget it. It was what have you done _lately_, not six years ago. But now…

This kid, this Scott kid, my God, Lockridge could write three, four papers off this crazy young sumbitch _alone_.

Lockridge slipped the tape into the VCR. He watched the tape again and had to steady himself so his hands wouldn't shake.

**Seven**

He didn't even remember when they unstrapped him and dragged him off. They dumped him back in his room and he crawled over to the corner on his hands and knees. His body shook, and his head hurt so much he closed his eyes against the dim light in the room. Coyote pressed his back into the corner, and he drew his knees up to his chest. His hands trembled. The skin around his wrists and ankles was rubbed raw, despite the sheepskin lining those restraints.

He hated this body. Hated this flesh. He was trapped again and everything he knew didn't work.

"So," a familiar voice drawled, "Are we having fun yet?"

He didn't look up. Didn't want to, didn't have to. Out of the corner of his eye Coyote saw worn blue jeans, a long brown leather jacket.

Dean slid down the wall next to him, so close Coyote could feel the leather slide against the side of his arm. Coyote was pale and tired. Dean looked well rested and fit.

Coyote's throat was sore, raw. It hurt like hell, but he said the words anyway. "You bastard…"

"Yup," Dean nodded. He bared his teeth. He sniffed. "So. When's your next session with Doc Lockridge?" He gave Coyote a sly sideways glance, and he winked.

"What…what do you want?"

"I want my life back, bitch," Dean snarled, low and dangerous.

To heather03nmg: Your boy's back. You like?

Next up: All hell breaks loose.


	10. Chapter 10 The Wheel of the World

Disclaimer: Don't own 'em. Darn it.

A/N: I know I promised that I'd post this Friday or Saturday, but I was having trouble with my muse. No, she didn't quit on me, I got **too much** from her. Hell starts breaking loose in this one, folks, and if I didn't 'splain some things to you now, you'd get confused when the shit _really_ hits the fan later on. So here's **_two_** chapters today.

Reviews are always appreciated! You not only took time out of your day to read this twisted little fairy tale of mine, you also reviewed and even fussed at me 'cause you wanted more updates, quicker. Much love to you all! …and much love to you lurkers, too. I know y'all are out there. I can hear you breathing.

All of the possessed folks I mentioned in Chapter 5 (Meatsuit Shuffle) show up in this chapter (Hah, thought I forgot about 'em all, didn't you?). Some will survive the big finale, and some won't.

Sam's back. Dean and Coyote never left, and Hazgarn, hereee's Bobby!

Spoilers: Devil's Trap, Pilot, In My Time of Dying

**Dog Eat Dog **

**Chapter 10: The Wheel of the World**

**One **

**Roadway Inn**

**Room 19A**

**Vashon, Illinois**

Sam Winchester woke up with his brother's voice growling in his head. Dean sounded extremely, supremely, pissed off. _I told you to run, Sam. What the fuck do you think you're doing? _

Sam chuckled a little. He laid there on the bed, let his eyes adjust to the darkness. He watched the lights from the highway traffic wash over the ceiling in a see-thru haze of white and yellow light.

_Gonna get you back, 'bro. _He brushed his fingers down the smooth leather of Dean's jacket, and his chest tightened up, just a little.

_I got work to do._

Imaginary Dean snort-chuckled inside Sam's headspace. _Emo bitch._

_Macho freak_, Sam shot back and he could almost hear his brother laugh.

Sam swung his legs off the bed and groped around until he found the switch for the lamp on the nightstand. He groaned a little as the light went on--- _too damn bright_! – and he stretched, felt the crick in the back of his neck loosen a little.

He noticed the salt lines on the doors and windows right away, and that made him stop and stare for a moment. He didn't remember doing that. Must have, though. There they were, thick, even, and straight, just like Dean had taught him, all those years ago.

He _did_ remember calling Bobby, hours ago, before he went to bed. Sam wanted to have some research done by the time Bobby showed up.

Two minutes later Sam had the laptop fired up and was surfing the net.

Ilimu. Demons, originally from Kenya. Hunters. Sam let out a sharp bark of ironic laughter when he read _that._ There was a lot of lore on these damned things. They specialize in hunting humans by possessing animals. They shape-shift the animal into a human once the possession takes hold. They use the hunting qualities of the animal it possesses while in human form, and they have all the intelligence and memories of the murdered "donor."

Murdered. He tried not to think about that part.

Some Ilimu hunted humans using animals. The most famous case was back in 1898, in which two lions near the Tsavo River in Kenya killed nearly 140 people in two months' time during construction of a bridge there. The lions hunted together, used human cunning and deception to claim their victims, and they killed many of the hunters that were sent to hunt them.

They set traps. For humans.

Sam remembered watching the movie based on the incident, "The Ghost and the Darkness", with Michael Douglas and Val Kilmer. One night he and Dean were holed up in some motel room up in Seattle, Washington. It rained the entire time they were there. They'd spent the day dealing with a particularly nasty poltergeist. The damn thing seemed to take a special delight in bouncing them off the walls of the house like they were tennis balls. After they'd vanquished the fucker they limped back to their motel room, and the beds were lumpy, the take-out Chinese tasted like crap, and the beer was watery, but Dean's eyes lit up when he discovered that movie was on. He had a death grip on the remote and just laid there on his bed, watching intently. "Don't even think about changing the channel, Poindexter. I'm watching _this_." Dean said flatly. Sam figured what the hell, and he settled in and watched the damn thing too.

Poetic irony is a real _bitch_.

John Winchester had written his suspicions about several cases down in his journal. As far as Sam could tell, though, Dad had never actually hunted Ilimu, but there was that grizzly bear that roamed back and forth between the US and Canadian border several years back. It killed livestock and humans for the pure joy of it, was impossible to track, and several witnesses claimed that the damn thing knew how to unlock doors, and open windows. John was down in Louisiana, hunting a ghul, and by the time he finally turned his attention on the grizzly, the damned thing had disappeared.

One fact Sam had witnessed with his own eyes was this: Dean had changed into a rather large coyote, and the one thing that struck Sam was how much the damn critter resembled Dean, even down to that compact, muscular body type of his, those green eyes, and long lashes. An animal spirit, a possession, brought on by what happened to Dean back in McCoy, maybe. Once the change was complete, Dean had vanished, and Sam hoped and prayed that just meant some other kind of transition, to or from what Sam didn't have a fucking clue.

According to some accounts Ilimu are skilled in luring humans into secluded places. They enjoy posing as family and friends and and once inside the house or village they slaughter entire families and villages. They're reported to be excellent mimics.

Sam, _they're_ coming for you…

I want to stay, but _he_ won't let me…

It was totally fucked up, but that was the part that gave Sam hope.

That was when he decided to stay put.

"You gotta be careful, Sammy," Dean had said once. "That shining thing you got going on makes you awfully attractive to spirits and who knows what else out there."

Actually, Sam was counting on it.

He could set up devils' traps inside the hotel room, and inside the Impala. He could use himself as bait, make himself very, very visible, and let the demon bring Dean back to him. According to the lore, Ilimu enjoyed deceiving the families and friends of their victims. That was a trait he could use against the hellish sons-of-bitches, a trait he could use to save his brother.

Deep down, Sam was afraid. Afraid he'd have to add the sight of Dean down on his knees, the stricken look on Dean's face, that dazed look in his eyes as he changed, have to add that to the sight of Jess bleeding and burning on the ceiling, and John Winchester lying dead on the floor of his hospital room. His mother died the same way Jess did, but Sam was too young to remember that. He was reminded of it, though, each and every fucking day of his life. He was reminded every time he looked at his brother. Dean was only four at the time, but he remembered that night. Dean remembered everything, and although Dean rarely spoke of it, Sam knew the sight haunted his brother each and every day.

Sam had lost too much already.

He couldn't, he wouldn't lose Dean too.

The knock on the door was loud enough to get his attention. _Bobby_, Sam thought, and he closed the laptop.

Sam frowned as he looked thru the peephole. It was the desk clerk from this morning. That was over eight hours ago, and unless she was pulling a double shift, she should have gone home hours ago.

She stared directly into the peephole, right at Sam, and she smiled and winked. Her eyes glowed a deep, hellish yellow, the color of a poisoned sunrise.

He felt it then, a familiar, horrible pressure all over his body, and the wind was knocked out of him as he was slammed backwards into the far wall and held there, his arms pinned down by his sides. The pressure increased, pressing down on his chest. It closed his throat up, let him pull in just enough air to breathe.

His eyes frantically searched out the salt lines, especially the one in front of the door. The line was still there. It should hold. It should keep the damned thing out…

It didn't.

The lock on the door liquefied as he watched. Rivulets of molten metal ran down the door frame and cooled instantly, and the door swung open slowly. The desk clerk's eyes flared up as she walked into the room. What was inside her seemed almost too big for her body to hold. She smiled at him, and that smile did reach her yellow eyes. It was actually glad to see him. It looked at Sam with affection and fondness, and that made his skin crawl.

No matter what body this thing jumped into, Sam could always recognize that smile. He'd seen the same smile on his father's face when it possessed _him_. Bright, wide, confident. Sam didn't doubt the fucker could smile like that as it watched its victims bleed and burn, could smile like that as it lied, killed, and butchered.

She touched him, pushed back his shirt sleeve to reveal the scar of the binding link Meg had branded him with a month ago. _Don't touch me_, Sam thought wildly_. Get your damn hands off me_, but his throat closed up and he couldn't even say the words. The binding link was useless now; Bobby Singer had run a hot iron over the link to destroy it so Meg could be forced from Sam's body. The desk clerk ran her thumb slowly over the scar. The scar was raised slightly, and it had healed over quite well.

Right now, that was the least of Sam's problems.

"I sent one of my children around to check on you earlier today. I would've come myself, but I didn't think Dean would be so happy to see me." She shrugged, smiling. "It's always best to avoid all that Winchester family drama, you know? And your brother was quite the drama queen, wasn't he?"

Sam glared at her. He tried to lift himself off the wall and was slammed back for his trouble. "…Dean's…not…dead…" he choked out.

She laughed, like he'd just told her the funniest joke in the world and was glad he shared it with her. "He's gone, Sam. Gone as in never coming back. Dean was weak. Useless. Not that he could've stopped me. But," and she stepped close, stroked the side of Sam's face, "you're in a bit of trouble right now, aren't you? Hunter becoming the hunted, tables turned, and all that. It's all right. I won't let them take you."

Sam swallowed painfully, and managed to gasp out the words, "…the salt..." and she laughed.

"I've told you before, Sam. Do you really think something like that works on something like me?"

Holy water was useless against this thing, and now Sam knew salt was too.

_**Two **_

**Norwood State Hospital**

**Norwood, Kansas**

"You - you want your_ life_ back?" Coyote repeated. He laughed. There was a creepy kind of hysterical quality to his voice, like he was about a second or two on the brink of losing his fucking mind. Dean grabbed a handful of his blue t-shirt, shrugged and quite frankly couldn't think of anything else to do, so he jabbed Coyote in the face. Hard.

Damn, that felt _good_. Dean smirked to himself, despite the fact that he had just hit himself in the face. Didn't feel a thing.

Coyote wouldn't stop laughing. Dean fisted Coyote's blue t shirt with both hands and slammed him back into the wall roughly. Coyote sputtered, and he settled down enough to glare at Dean.

"Sam's out there, alone, and those Ilimu are hunting him." Dean grated. "I've got to get out of here."

"And…and you really think_ I'm_ going to _help_ you?" Coyote smirked. "…niño -- little boy -- you have lost your fucking mind."

Dean jabbed him again.

Coyote grunted, and even quirked his lips a little. Dean leaned in, got right in Coyote's face. He pushed him into the wall, and the smile on Dean's face was tight and unpleasant. "I'm _not_ your little boy. You got that, freak? Trust me on this. If you don't help me, I will make your life a living hell. Fucked up won't even begin to cover it. You'll be stuck here. Lockridge will drug the hell out of you, parade you around in front of his buddies, and when the feds find out that Dean Winchester is at Norwood State Hospital, well," Dean smiled cruelly, "that's when the fun really starts."

"You wouldn't do that. You'd be stuck in here with me…"

"Still don't get it, do you? How can somebody who looks so good be so damned stupid? If Sam dies, I don't have any reason to live. And guess who I'm going to focus on from now on?" They stared at each other. Dean gave Coyote another shove against the wall.

"Well?"

"I won't." Despite the stubble on his face, Coyote looked awfully young. "You walled me up because of him."

Dean looked at him like he was insane. "Dude, I was four. Get over it."

Coyote's eyes flickered greenish-gold. His right hand shot out, his fingers dug into the space where Dean's neck and shoulder met. Dean felt the fingertips go beneath his skin, into his muscles. He didn't feel solid anymore. He was like a handful of mist caught up between Coyote's fingers. Coyote slowly stood up, stood over him. Dean's knees thumped against the floor, and suddenly Coyote didn't look so washed out and weak anymore.

"You look tired, _little boy_," he said, mockingly, his head turned slightly to one side. Coyote's fingers tightened, and Dean really wanted to scream, but he didn't have the breath for it. "I hate to keep repeating myself," Coyote smirked. "I'm going to put you to bed now, and this time, do yourself a favor. Stay there."

Dean's body unraveled, turned into long bluish-white streamers of heat and energy that Coyote's skin absorbed like a sponge. The last thing Dean heard before he slid into darkness was his own breathing, rough and echoing in his head.

Coyote closed his eyes. He could see the Winchester house in the Lawrence, Kansas mindscape he'd created. That was where it had all started and that would be where Dean would spend the rest of his days. He could see the John Winchester doppelganger at the front door of the house, with Dean, and for once the kid was quiet. He was semi-unconscious, slumped over, one arm over the other one's shoulder, and Coyote didn't break contact until he saw the front door close behind the two.

Coyote never would have admitted it, but he really care much for using John Winchester's image against Dean. This was war, though, and he was willing to use whatever advantage he could think of to put Dean under, and to keep him there.

Coyote had liked John. John Winchester reminded Coyote of a bear kachina he befriended near the Rio Grande River, back in the old days. Big likable fella, gruff personality, and, like John Winchester, a little bit prickly at times. After John died there were nights when Dean would wake up in his bed, miserable, and he wanted to go outside and howl his grief out at the moon.

Back behind the wall Coyote _did_ howl.

Dean felt nearly everything deeply, strongly, despite that shallow, smartass act he always put on, and Coyote was able to fully experience whatever Dean was feeling. Strong emotions could bleed thru the wall. It happened just enough to make him think that the boy was fucking with his head, but over time Coyote began to realize that Dean wasn't. Dean was unaware of him. Coyote was _too_ aware of Dean. The kid had plenty of other things tucked away behind those other walls. He was four years old when he walled Coyote up, which meant that Coyote's wall was probably the first wall Dean ever built, and the damn kid knew how to build a damn wall.

Towards the end the fights between John and Sam escalated, and Coyote knew there was only one way that was going to end. Badly. Coyote would lay there, ears flattened, and listen to the commotion. Dean tensed up inside, and Coyote tensed up too. Coyote was still surprised that John and Sam hadn't killed each other, and he knew Dean felt the same way. There were times when Dean would step quietly in between John and Sam, and he wouldn't move off until they both backed off.

During those times Sam had developed the habit of sticking his chin out, as if he were daring John to take a swing at him. There were times when Dean just couldn't take all the yelling, and he'd leave to go to a bar, or to take a walk. He didn't stay gone overnight though; he kept seeing John and Sam arguing, then finally using knives and guns on each other. Dean sometimes dreamed about walking in and finding their bodies broken and bleeding on the floor.

The family was together. Why wasn't that enough for Sam?

Just another reason why Coyote didn't particularly care for the brat.

The last bit of Dean's energy tingled and pricked at the skin of Coyote's fingertips. He felt good again, but he knew something was wrong. He could feel it. None of that should have happened. None of it.

Dean shouldn't have been able to take control like that.

He shouldn't have gotten out in the first place.

Coyote opened his eyes.

She was a wisp of smoke, a slight displacement of air. It was an old trick, one of the first tricks Coyote had ever learned, and it amazed him that these younger Tricksters would think that such a basic trick would even go unnoticed by one such as him. She gasped in fright as his hand easily closed around her neck. He used his weight against her and slammed her up against the wall. She became visible as soon as he touched her. Her knees buckled and he held her up by the throat.

"Shouldn't you be leaving, Old Man?" Her pale grey eyes widened with shock at first, but then he could see this gleam in her eyes as she settled down. She knew something he didn't, and he didn't like that. "Warmer, friendlier climes, and all that?"

"If you have a problem with me, say it, bitch."

"Fair enough." She swallowed thickly. "I don't want you here. This is mine." She indicated the room, the entire building with a roll of her eyes. "Everything here is mine. I came here years ago, and I didn't leave. There's a whole wide world out there, and you had to come here."

He nodded. That was plain enough

"I told Lockridge about you. I went into his office like this, and I whispered in his ear. Told him you were something special. That's why he keeps prodding and poking. That's why he's taken such an interest in you. The boy is right, old man. You should leave."

Coyote smiled, in spite of the fact that this was all pretty fucked up. Chaos and mischief. It was what Tricksters did, what they were good at.

"But, you can't leave, can you?" She stopped, looked him up and down in an appraising way, as though she were trying to find and identify his faults. Not to help him, hell no, to use them against him. She smiled back at him, and it was a sly twisted grin. "You can't leave the old way, so we'll have to help you."

_We?_

Something moved behind him, just outside the corner of his vision. It was fast.

He moved faster.

He let go of her, and she darted away as he turned. One of the patients rushed at him with his arms held out, shoulder high, his hands hooked into claws. This one was bald, and instead of hair he had a Mohawk of long spiny tentacles that moved and waved in the air. When he hid in front of the white shirts this one was just bald.

Coyote stepped forward instead of backing up. They locked fingers, palm to palm, and Coyote tightened his grip and pulled their arms out to the sides. Coyote jerked him forward, gave him a head-butt that was so hard it rocked his head back. Coyote tightened his grip up even further, hard, twisted both of Mohawk's arms downward in a semi-circle. The dude went up on tiptoe and his shoulders hunched up. Coyote reached out with his mind and went for the weak spots, pulling and tearing, separating the muscles from the bones, and there was an audible crack and pop as both of the man's shoulders rotated completely out of their sockets. The spines on his head clenched up, from the pain, probably. Coyote didn't care one way or another. He let go, planted his foot square in the man's chest and kicked him back toward the others.

Mohawk hit the floor on his back, moaning, his arms limp, twisted out and away from his body in awkward, painful angles. The spines on his head curled in on themselves.

They stood around the room staring at him. There weren't any white shirts around, and it was only patients, only blues, in the room, so there was no need to hide. There were four, besides Mohawk and the Trickster female. Coyote saw scaly grey skin. One had ice blue eyes. The one near the door was skeletal, way too thin to be a normal human. Another's face rippled and darkened as something slid around just underneath that pale, waxy skin.

Back in the day he had to do more than just deceive humans and cause chaos; he had to fight for his life until the Others learned to leave him alone. There were a lot more _things_ around then, ancient things with teeth, hunger and power, things that preyed on beings like him. _Just like the old days_, Coyote thought ruefully. Seemed like the wheel of the world was turning in that direction again.

They hesitated, and their eyes kept flicking from the beaten wreck on the floor, back to him. The female Trickster regarded him with wide frightened eyes. _Not so weak, now, bitch._ Coyote couldn't help but smirk, and when he spoke he sounded almost bored.

"Right. Now, who wants to be _next_?"

_**Three**_

Hell broke loose in Vashon, and when it started, it started small.

Sam Winchester's scent vanished into thin air, some nine hours after his brother Dean's scent vanished too. That was the trigger

It was the first time Ilimu had ever lost track of their prey. Not one, but both. The brothers had been tracked to that truck stop, and from there to a supermarket down the road.

There, the older brother, the injured one, disappeared. Vanished.

That caused a ripple thru the members of the Ilimu hunting party. The young ones got a little anxious, but they were Ilimu, and they were determined not to show it. The older members remained calm, but still, when the younger brother disappeared, they froze in their tracks.

All across Vashon, where ever they were that night, Ilimu stopped, and sat, momentarily unable to cope with this. The old white haired on sat in the black sedan several blocks away from the Roadway Inn. It was the place the younger brother had last been seen. The one posing as Dean Winchester sat there, his green eyes glazed and staring. The elder could hear the ones inside John Eugene Daley's body as they slid around under Daley's skin, then stopped.

Down the street K9 Officer John Chambers sat in his cruiser and stared into space. Thor sat in the back of the cruiser and stared out at the night with hollow dark eyes. Right before they entered Vashon city limits Chambers went to the trunk and let the hooker in yellow out. The woman was half dead from the heat, but she was still usable. One of the others climbed into her skin several hours ago, and now she sat there staring too.

There were twenty eight chimps in all from the Forever Home Animal Reserve, and they had kept a low profile coming into Vashon by traveling at night. Several homeless people living underneath the bridge leading into town had the bad luck to see them, and they were clubbed to death. The bodies were hidden in the underbrush, and the hagridden chimps hid under the bridge and waited until nightfall.

The thing inside Henry Darrow pulled Darrow's F-150 truck over on the parking lot of the 7-11 down the street. He sat there staring into space. Darrow's dog Moose lay in the back seat. Several Ilimu inhabited the dog's body, and his fur rippled as they moved inside him.

As they entered Vashon the Ilimu who'd taken over various birds made the jump to stray dogs and any human that was available.

The thing inside Officer Chambers didn't even notice at first when a driver pulling up in the parking space behind him miscalculated the distance and tapped the police car hard enough to send it rocking back and forth. The driver was a twenty seven year old city worker by the name of Dave Maberry, and rear-ending a cop was the last thing Dave needed that night.

It was also the last thing Dave did on earth that night.

He sat in his car, and put his hands on his face, and all he could think about was that he was going to spend the night in jail, at least. He knew he shouldn't have drunk all that beer with his friends, and right at the moment he couldn't even remember if he had his wallet on him.

The police dog in the back of the car turned and stared at him with hollow, dark eyes, and even though Dave saw it was a cop car from Crawford, a cop was a cop, and he knew he was screwed. He watched the cop get out of the car, and he was a big son-of-a-bitch, young, but he didn't have the ticket book in his hand and Dave actually thought he had a chance, maybe to talk him out of writing a ticket, something.

Chambers body walked up to Dave Maberry's car. Dave opened his mouth and the thing inside Chambers pulled his service revolver, aimed, and put two slugs into Dave Maberry's forehead.

Maberry's body lay slumped against the steering wheel. The sound of the car horn going off really irritated the demon, and he pushed Maberry's body over on the seat and put two more rounds into the steering wheel. The horn sputtered, then stopped.

Chambers' body walked back to his car, and he pulled off.

It had been a long chase, and they were all hyped up from it. All that pent up energy, all that bloodlust, had to go somewhere.

Some of them moved towards the Roadway Inn. The others moved towards any humans that were nearby.

**_Four _**

**Roadway Inn**

**Vashon, Illinois**

Condie started growling the moment they pulled onto the motel parking lot. The huge dog glanced at him sideways, ears pricked, as if to say, _What's the matter? You can't feel that? _Bobby felt the hair on the back of his neck raise up and stay there.

Bobby pulled his truck in right next to the Impala and immediately stuck his pistol into his waistband. He pulled his shirt down over it. His eyes narrowed and he scanned the area as he got out of the truck. Usual foot traffic on the motel lot and the sidewalk. It was a warm spring night, people walking back and forth. He didn't see any black eyes, nothing weird, nothing out of the ordinary, but he couldn't shake that weird feeling he was getting, and that pit in his stomach refused to go away.

The door to 19A was ajar. There was a hole where the lock should have been.

He didn't even have to say anything to the dog. She knew to stay with the truck, until he called for her, or if she saw something come after him. Then she'd attack the fugly, and her chances in a fight were better than most. After poor old Rumsfield had been killed by that Meg demon Bobby had taken some precautions with his dogs. He was determined not to lose any more to those hellbound sumbitches, and so far, he hadn't. Condie had the protection amulets Bobby hung from her collar, in addition to the one that prevented demonic possession. A weekly bath in holy water was another precaution. She was also one mean bitch, which was another reason why Bobby brought her along.

He had the pistol out and held it down along the side of his leg as he pushed the door open. Molten metal ran down the inside door frame, under the hole where the lock and been. The lights were on, and Bobby frowned as his boots crunched over the broken salt line at the door. The salt was scattered outwards, as though something heavy had been dragged over it.

Sam's laptop was still on the table. Duffel bags on the beds, and the sight of Dean's clothes, boots and leather jacket gave Bobby a chill in the warm night air.

He glanced outside thru the window. Nothing. Condie was still on guard and when she saw him thru the window she stopped and stared intently. He did a standard search pattern in the room, checked the closet and the bathroom. He even looked under the beds. That might sound stupid, but there had been a couple of hunts where he'd been surprised like that.

Bobby Singer hated surprises. He was an old hunter, and you didn't get to be that age in that game without taking precautions and planning ahead. Sometimes even that wasn't enough. Sometimes pure dumb luck was enough to save your ass.

Like now.

It was quiet enough in the room, even with all the traffic noises from the highway. He would've heard Condie if she'd barked. He'd left the windows rolled halfway down. He heard her, all right, but she didn't bark.

She growled, a low, mean sound that was felt more than heard. Bobby heard the door being pushed open, and he raised the pistol.

Dean Winchester stumbled into the room, clutching his side, looking beat half to hell, bleeding.

He stopped short when he saw the gun. Bobby had it pointed at his head.

Dean swayed on his feet. "B-Bobby?" He looked dazed. Blood from a cut on his forehead trickled near his eyes and he raised one shaky hand to wipe it away. Dean blinked slowly as he looked around. "W-Where's -- where's Sam?"

"He was gone when I got here." Bobby's hand didn't shake and his aim never wavered.

"Where the hell you been, Dean?" Bobby asked flatly.

"Wh-what?"

"Sam said you were gone. Said you'd changed."

The younger man shook his head. "They jumped me. I told Sam to run and we got separated." He stared at the gun and his eyes narrowed. "You gonna just shoot me, Bobby? Fuck, is that what you're gonna do?" He groaned, nearly doubled over. "We're…we're wasting time standing here like this. They took Sam. I'm gonna find him whether you help me or not, so if you're gonna shoot me, you better do it now."

Dean turned towards the door, and his knees buckled. He put one hand on the door frame to hold himself up. From the way his knees were wobbling, he wasn't going to stay upright for long.

"Hold on a minute." Bobby shook his head, sounded exasperated. "Here, let me help you up." Bobby stepped up behind Dean. He still had the gun in one hand, and he slid his other hand into his vest pocket. Bobby pulled the dark grey metal amulet out and looped the chain right over Dean's neck.

"Exorcizamus te, infernalis adversarii…_reveal_," Bobby whispered.

Bobby stepped away just as an electric shock rolled thru Dean's body. The eyes widened, then filled up with pitch blackness, then flared to a fiery reddish orange. It snapped and bit at the air with its fangs, and its long fingers hooked into black razor sharp claws. It wanted to touch the amulet, wanted to remove it, but it couldn't. Bobby stepped around to the side, so he could get a better look at it from the front, and it stared at him in total surprise. Bobby nodded curtly at it.

This was the second time in a month that something thought it could get the drop on him by using the body of John Winchester's boys. First Sam, and now Dean. If Dean had been normal he wouldn't have reacted at all. The demon couldn't help but react. The medallion and chain was made of consecrated metal taken from an abandoned church, and even though the place had been abandoned it was_ still_ sacred ground.

"Don't con a con man," Bobby snarled as he stepped forward and drove his fist into Dean's face. He watched as it hit the floor unconscious. _Second time in a damn month_, he thought. _Must think I have stupid tattooed on my forehead._

Outside in the truck, Condie started barking, loud and urgent, like a warning.

A/N - Bobby has no way of knowing this isn't Dean possessed by a demon. It's an Ilimu.


	11. Chapter 11 Nine Kinds of Crazy

Disclaimer: If I owned "Supernatural", do you really think I'd be working at this damn day job? Yeah, I said it.

A/N: More Dean-angst, Sam's in peril, and so is Bobby Singer. Remember, that's not Dean with Bobby. Dean's with Coyote.

BlackIceAngel: The chapter I will post tomorrow contains the last session with Drugged/CoyoteDean and Lockridge. Thank you for giving me the idea. This chapter would have been way too long if I'd tried to include it here.

Also: heather03nmg, if you thought the scenes at the old house between John and Dean were sad before, wait until you see what happens _inside_ the house.

(I told y'all, that damn muse is working overtime….)

**Dog Eat Dog **

**Chapter 11: Nine Kinds of Crazy **

**One **

**FBI Headquarters**

**Washington DC **

Special Agent Anita Dufresne glanced at the printout again. She couldn't help it, but she allowed herself a slight grin. Road trip. The destination was Bumfuck, Kansas, also known as Norwood, Kansas, but hell, she'd take it.

Not only were they going on a road trip, but this probably meant the end of long weeks of frustration, of being snapped and snarled at by her boss. She liked the guy, enjoyed working for him most of the time, but working with Victor Hendricksen on a daily basis following that weird business in Milwaukee, Wisconsin had turned into an endurance test. The Winchesters had given him the slip by posing as SWAT team members, and Hendricksen had been hell to work with ever since.

Damn, he needed a massage, a cruise, a good fuck, something. She thought about offering to help him with the last one, then thought better of it. Hendricksen was strictly by the book, and Anita had no desire to commit professional suicide.

Hendricksen looked up frowning as she walked into his office. Eight o'clock at night and they were both still art work. Oh well. She played it cool, a little coy maybe, and he started to growl at her until she put the printout down on the desk in front of him and pointed one well manicured fingernail at the mug shot on the left hand side.

The look on Hendricksen's face was priceless.

"Dean Winchester?"

She nodded. "Norwood State Hospital, Norwood, Kansas."

"Did you—"

"Called Norwood PD, informed them of the situation. They've notified the hospital to put Winchester under lockdown and they're sending two men out ASAP. Also sent them a photo of Sam Winchester; got a state-wide BOLO on him. If Dean's in Norwood, Sam might not be too far away. I called for transport. The jet's fueled and ready."

Hendricksen was up and slipping on his suit jacket before she finished the sentence. He reached in his closet for his duffel and slung it on his shoulder.

"Confined to a mental institution." Hendricksen shook his head as he walked out the door. "Gotta admit, I'm not surprised. Always knew there was something off about that kid. Him and his geek brother."

"Funny thing is, we got a hit a day or so ago from McCoy, Indiana about Winchester." Dufresne followed Hendricksen out and walked alongside him down the hallway. "McCoy sent us a query with fingerprints. When I contacted them about it they said it was a screw-up."

Hendricksen raised an eyebrow. "But Dean Winchester is definitely in Norwood?"

"Yes, sir. At the State Hospital there. He's a John Doe."

"Good. I don't doubt he was in McCoy. Gave 'em the slip, probably, and the locals were too damned embarrassed to admit it. Kid's stealthy. Moves like a cat, hard to pin down. He's nine kinds of crazy, but he and Sam know how to drop off the grid if they don't want to be found. If he was picked up by Norwood PD, little podunk town like that, something happened. Whatever it is, I'll take it. Good work, Dufresne."

"Thank you, sir."

She felt like she could breathe again.

_**Two**_

The clerk inside the 7-11 stared when that short stocky guy came in with his damn dog. "Hey, mister," A.J. called out. "You're gonna have to leave your dog outside. We don't allow 'em in the store." A.J. could swear that the dog was grinning at him. Its eyes didn't look right…too large, too black. Fur didn't look right…hell, it almost looked like something was moving around underneath its skin.

A.J. shook his head and sighed heavily. It had been a long night, and he was tired. And now it looked like he was going to have to call the popo on his guy, because instead of moving towards the door, Short Round ignored A.J.and moved down the aisle towards him. The dog's tail wagged and it brushed up against one of the customers in the aisle. The woman made a strangled noise, and her body stiffened. She had her back turned to A.J.so he didn't see her eyes turn black, but he sure as hell saw it when she turned around and started walking towards him.

The dog darted down the aisle, towards two more customers, and their eyes blackened up like the woman's had. They turned and walked down the aisle. A.J backed up. He didn't feel secure, even with the barrier of the counter in front of him.

The next thing A.J. knew the damn dog jumped up on the counter.

Something dark that screamed slid into the pores of A. J.'s skin, and it pulled him down screaming. Being bored and tired were suddenly the least of his worries.

A couple of minutes later the demon inside Hank Darrow's body started up Hank's F-150 truck and pulled off the parking lot. The dog, A.J., and the three customers from 7-11 all sat inside, staring out at the night.

You can never have enough warm bodies.

_**Three**_

_**Norwood State Hospital**_

_**Norwood, Kansas**_

**_They were either going to pick up their wounded and leave, or swarm him. It could go either way, and Coyote knew it. He could tell they were rattled. He didn't know what the female Trickster had told them about him, but it was clear they hadn't expected him to fight back, not like that. He was supposed to be weak, and he had to admit that his strengths, his powers weren't working the way they always had. He was also pissed off that the female had picked up on that fact so quickly. That kind of thing could make a bad day worse in a hurry._**

_**Now Coyote looked at each one in turn, and he smirked. Dean's face was extremely well suited for that expression, just like his body was a pure joy to use in a fight. Coyote flexed the fingers of his right hand. "Well? There's the door. Don't let it hit you on the way out."**_

**_The blue on the floor moaned, and one of the others cautiously edged forward, grabbed him by the shoulders, and pulled him backwards towards the door. He groaned when they touched his shoulders, and the spines on his head clenched up again. _**

**_The one with the icy blue eyes growled. "You killed my family."_**

"_**Did I?"**_

"**_We had to eat. Everyone eats. We did that for years. Just the little ones. The small ones. Just those. And you came, you and that other one, with those two other men, and you killed my family. I was the only one left."_**

"**_Little ones," Coyote repeated. He frowned. "Small…you mean babies. You and your family ate children." Blue eyes stared at him as though Coyote was the insane one. "Huh." Coyote smiled, and the smile reached his eyes. "Guess what, sweetheart, I've been looking for you."_**

_**It was a lie, a trick, but he was still a Trickster. It was one of the things he did best.**_

**_Blue Eyes flinched and stepped backwards. He was obviously the leader, and he was still too much alpha male to cut and run, at least not yet. The female Trickster hovered by the door, staring back at Coyote, and she seemed confused, uncertain. She'd been so sure they had him, so positive that he couldn't fight back. Coyote figured Blue Eyes was good for another thirty seconds or so before he decided to head for the door._**

_**Another minute was about all Coyote had left.**_

In the past Dean had been carried enough times by his Dad, carried out of places unconscious, half dead, shot, stabbed, feverish. Gently loaded into the passenger side or the back bench of the Impala. Carried into numerous motel rooms and back cabins to be stitched up, sedated, his skin dug into so that bullets could be removed, even tied down to the bed while fever burned and raged through his body and addled his brain.

He knew the feel of his Dad's body, solid and heavy. His skin remembered the feel of John's broad strong fingers around his arm, his shoulder. Dean knew the beating of his Dad's heart as well as he knew his own. Right now he could smell the faint spicy aftershave that John wore, felt the slight scrape of stubble against his own jaw line as John steadied himself, stood upright with Dean's arm slung across his shoulder as they paused in front of the front door of their old house. Everything was just as Dean knew it from before, and he knew it was all wrong. His face felt cold and damp, and he hated the weak, rubbery feel of his muscles.

"It's okay," the thing that looked like John Winchester murmured. "Son, I'm here."

_No! You're not my dad! This isn't our old house! _He didn't yell, he _screamed_ inside his head, for all the good it did him. They kept moving forward, closer to the door, and his legs wouldn't work, and he couldn't stop this. The door lock clicked shut behind them, and they were in the front hallway. It looked the same, smelled the same as it did before, only now the place suddenly seemed…smaller.

He didn't even remember going up the stairs. They were on the second floor and the Dad-thing had vanished. Dean was alone.

And he was standing in Sammy's old nursery.

It didn't look old at all. The crib, the toys, the wallpaper, _everything_ in the room looked as new as it had when his Mom and Dad brought Sammy home from the hospital. The mobile over the crib swung around slowly in the still air, first one way, and then another, and Dean's heart pounded so hard in his chest he felt dizzy, weak. His knees turned rubbery and he backed away, put his hand out and managed to sit down hard on a small chest of drawers near the door.

He was breathing too hard, too fast, and the sound of it echoed inside his head. His hands shook. Something on the ceiling caught his eye, and he looked up. He immediately wished he hadn't.

Mary Winchester lay on the ceiling over Sam's crib. Her blonde hair fanned out around her shoulders, and her skin was pale, almost waxy. Her white nightgown was stained by the large bloody gash across her stomach. She stared at Dean with sunken red-rimmed eyes, and her mouth moved, slowly.

_Dean…_

"Mom," Dean whispered hoarsely. He shook his head from side to side, and one devastating tear dropped from his eye, ran down his finely cut cheekbone. "Mom…I'm sorry…I'm so sorry…."

_Dean…_

He closed his eyes. _I couldn't stop this. I couldn't save her. My fault. All my fault. Dad's gone, and that's my fault too._ It was the second time he felt like screaming in this place, and he hunched over, crossed his arms over his chest, as the sheer weight of everything pressed down on him.

_Watch out for Sammy, Dean…_

_Sure, Dad, you know I will…you're scaring me…_

_Don't be scared, Dean._

_You have to promise me, Dean. Promise me that you'll watch out for me. And if I turn, you have to do it. You're the only one who can…_

_Don't ask that of me…_

_You have to promise…_

_His head felt like glass, and he felt something splinter inside, behind his eyes. _

_Dean's eyes were bone dry when he opened them again. He stared up at the ceiling. Nothing was there. He sat up straighter on the chest of drawers, and he stared at the crib. He stared at it for a long time, then he got to his feet. _

**_They were backing up. They were leaving. The female Trickster cracked the door open and vanished in a shimmer of heated air. The other two put Mohawk between them and finally got him on his feet. He stumbled and his arms hung limply, at awkward angles._**

_**That left Coyote with Blue Eyes, and the other two, the one with the scaly skin, and the vessel with the darkness just underneath the skin.**_

Dean walked over to the chair by Sam's crib. It was a straight back wooden chair, the same chair his mother used to sit in as she read Dean a bedtime story. Dean had insisted Sammy be included, even though he was way too young to understand the words. It was the same chair that Dean pulled over to Sam's crib, the same chair he pulled over to the crib and stood up on, when he made the toys dance in the air over Sam's crib. It was the same chair.

Dean picked up the chair and smashed it into kindling on the floor. He pulled the mobile down and threw it into the far corner. The crib was next.

_**Outside, Coyote flinched.**_

_**A searing hot pain punched him in the ribs, made him stagger. He caught himself. He didn't fall down on the floor screaming like he really wanted to, but he brought his hand up to his side, before he could stop himself. **_

_**Blue Eyes caught the motion, and his eyes narrowed, searched Coyote's face for some sign of further weakness. **_

**_Fuck, Coyote thought._**

Dean dumped the mattress and bed sheets out on the floor, and he picked the crib up with both hands and smashed it against the wall. It was heavy and awkward to lift, and he shouldn't have been able to lift it so easily, but he did. By the time Dean was finished the crib was reduced to a pile of broken wood and metal springs. Mary Winchester had hung up posters of animals, pictures of the alphabet. Dean pulled the pictures down from the walls. He smashed the frames with his bare hands and pulled the prints out, and then he tore them up. His hands didn't bleed. Not once.

He didn't grunt. He didn't say a word. Dean moved so he wouldn't have to think. If he stopped and thought, really thought about where he was, and what he was doing, it would break him. He felt incredibly angry, rageful, and you wouldn't have known it by looking at him. Dean's face was carefully, eloquently blank. He felt like smashing something, and he gave himself over to the feeling completely.

He loved his family with all his heart, would die for them without hesitation, but sometimes they were the very ones that could hurt him the most. They knew which buttons to push, which nerves to poke and prod at, and they weren't shy about doing it, either. And the hell of it was, he needed them more than they needed him. That fucking demon was right about that. Dean knew that.

And that pissed him off to no end.

Dean felt the house shake all around him. He went after the chest of drawers next.

**_Blue Eyes grinned. "You're hurt." He took a step forward._**

_**Coyote stood up straighter. His face was carefully blank. A sharp spike of pain behind his eyes made him blink. Slowly. The edge of his vision was slowly turning a soft hazy grey.**_

Dean heard the footsteps behind him._ He had in his hand the top railing of the crib and he turned as the Dad thing walked right up behind him. Dean didn't hesitate. He didn't flinch. He turned and used an underhand motion to punch the railing of the crib neatly, cleanly, thru the Dad-thing's chest._

_**Outside, Coyote swayed on his feet.**_

Dean stood nose to nose with the Dad-thing. He stared into its eyes, turned his head slightly to one side as he stared at its face.

Dean was screaming inside.

_How the fuck could you do that? Make a deal with the damned thing? How the hell am I supposed to live with that?_

"John" blinked. He stared back, and his lips trembled. The skin around his eyes crinkled slightly.

"Dean...son…please…"

Dean quirked his lips slightly and pushed upwards, harder. The thing that looked like his dad threw its head back and screamed. It vanished in a snap of displaced air and dark static.

Dean blinked.

Every window in the house shattered, blowing outward in a thick spray of silvery glass. Dean looked up just in time to see the roof as it came down on him.

_**Coyote had to force himself to breathe. Had to force himself to stay upright. He felt his back bump up against the wall, and Blue Eyes took another step forward. **_

"_**He's sick. Something's wrong."**_

**_The vessel stared at Coyote, its eyes darkened as the darkness inside slid over its face. It put one hand on the Blue Eyes' arm. Blue Eyes flinched angrily, and the vessel shook his head. "Tricky. This one. Think. Might be just what he wants you to do."_**

_**They stood there for a moment, considering. Coyote knew he was good for about another twenty seconds, if that. **_

_**They backed away. They left.**_

**_When he heard the door finally click shut Coyote stood upright longer than he had to. His muscles were no longer holding him; his knees had locked up. That lasted about another five seconds or so. He felt broken up inside, and he knew it was Dean. He knew, but he couldn't do anything about it. Everything loosened up then, his muscles, his bones, everything. Coyote sank down to his knees, and the grayness swallowed him up. _**

Dean Winchester walked out of the ruins of the house. Dean raised his face to that fake blue sky overhead, and he gripped the bed railing in one hand. He was too much of a hunter to release his hold on a weapon. Coyote would be coming along soon, or he wouldn't.

Right now Dean just didn't give a fuck.

He walked over and sat down under the large tree in the front yard. The tree trunk felt rough against the back of his head. Dean pulled his knees to his chest and just sat there, staring.

_**Four **_

**Roadway Inn**

**Room 19A**

**Vashon, Illinois**

The chairs at the Inn were sturdy, just right for what Bobby had in mind. He went back out to the truck and brought in a large coil of thick rope. He let Condie out of the truck and she followed him back inside. She kept looking backwards, towards the highway, and she never stopped growling, low in her throat.

He tied the thing he thought was Dean Winchester into a chair, and Condie stood watch as Bobby went back outside and packed his supplies in. He pulled another chair over and drew a large devils' trap on the ceiling, then he pulled "Dean's" chair underneath the trap.

The salt lines on the windows were still good, but Bobby put an extra layer on each one anyway. He reinforced the one on the door with a fresh layer of salt and cat's eye shells. He hung a protection charm in the hole where the door lock used to be, and he hung several more right in the middle of the door and in the middle of the windows. Condie never stopped growling. She sat there and stared at "Dean", and she would also turn and stare at the door. Something was coming. Something bad.

Something bad was already in the room.

"Dean" woke up slowly, with a harsh exhale of breath. His eyes blinked open and he stared down at the thick ropes around his wrists and ankles as though he'd never seen anything like that before. He looked up at the ceiling, and his green eyes went to pitch black, then flared reddish-orange when he saw the devils' trap.

"Deja fucking vu." He laughed and shook his head.

"You don't mess with the classics," Bobby said flatly.

"No, I guess not. So, how the hell you been, Bobby?" "Dean" said lightly.

"Where's Sam?"

"I don't know." "Dean" shrugged. "Sam's a big boy. He can take care of himself. You're better worry about yourself tonight, old man."

"Better demons than you have tried and failed, boy. How's about a nice trip back home? See the folks. Take you a while to claw your way back up, won't it?"

"Dean's" eyes widened at the sight of the rosary and the book in Bobby's hands. "You move on me, I'll stop his heart."

Bobby laughed, shook his head. "While you're sitting under a devil's trap? I don't think so. This must be your first time at the rodeo. Try it. Go ahead."

"Dean's" eyes narrowed. "I hunted your kind when places like this didn't even exist. I pulled them down and I ate them alive and screaming. You're no different."

Something thumped on the ceiling above them, hard, heavy. "Dean" looked up and his eyes went back to normal. He smirked. "Anyway, I think my family might have something to say about your travel plans for me."

Another thump, two more.

Bobby frowned, and then shrugged. He wasn't about to show fear, even though he felt a small pit form in his stomach. He knew there was always the chance that he wouldn't make it some day, that his number would be up. That kind of thinking didn't seem to be the kind of thing he should dwell on, but it was there all the time. He couldn't control it, and when he thought about it, he let quickly it go. Death came to everybody, in one form or another. When his came, Bobby wanted to take as many of the sumbitches with him as he possibly could.

"Dean" watched with some satisfaction as Bobby put the rosary and the book down on the bed, but his eyes widened slightly when the old man pulled a Sidewinder assault rifle out of the duffel bag. Bobby popped the clip, and checked it, just to be sure.

Before Jim Murphy's death last year, Pastor Jim was the one who blessed all of Bobby's ordinance and ammo. Nowadays, Bobby had to travel a little farther afield. The pastor of the church over in Dunlap, South Dakota had looked at him a little funny when Bobby first rolled up with a truck full of guns and ammo, but the preacher came highly recommended by other hunters and the blessing was no problem.

Condie swung around growling as something thumped hard against the door. She backed up, and her hackles were standing straight up.

Another thump overhead. Scare tactics so far. They were testing the boundaries, trying to see what would happen if they pushed a little.

"You can let me go now," "Dean" said smoothly, "and I promise we won't play too rough with you. We can always use another warm body." He sulked when Bobby ignored him. "No? All right, fine. Be that way, then."

Bobby eased over to the window and pulled the curtain back. At first his mind had a little trouble processing what he was seeing. It was dark, but the parking lot did have overhead lights. That wasn't the problem.

Bobby shook his head, and looked again. There were chimpanzees sitting on his truck. Three of them. One had a crowbar. The other one looked back at Bobby and grinned wildly, and its eyes were black as pitch. The third one looked at Bobby and raised its arm in a friendly wave.

"Son of a bitch…"

A man stood on the sidewalk next to the Impala. He had a baseball bat in his hand and he grinned as he swung the bat around at his side. Several stray dogs sat on the hood on the Impala, and Bobby knew if Dean were in his right mind he'd have a conniption if he saw that.

Black eyes all around.

More dogs walked up and sat on the sidewalk, and they all stood or sat there, staring at Room 19A. Another thump on the roof overhead.

Bobby switched the Sidewinder to semi-automatic.

_**Five **_

"I did this for you, Sammy," Dean sounded sad. "I did this all for you." They stood on this rooftop somewhere, somewhen, watching the people and the traffic in the streets below. Dean's voice was lower, rougher than usual. It sounded like he was growling and Sam ignored it. He ignored it the same way he ignored the way Dean's eyes glowed in the blue veil of the night.

Dean was back. Everything was okay. It was fine.

It had to be.

Dean glanced at him sideways, and shook his head. "I've done everything for you, Sam, and it's just not enough. I know that now. I've gotten hurt for you. Tried to keep you safe. I've even killed for you, and Dad." He shook his head. "It's not enough. It never was. You're embarrassed by me. I'm a freak. Everyone I love leaves me, and you will too. So go. Now. I don't care where you go, as long as you're not around me."

"Dean, that's not right. Why are you saying these things to me?"

"Because it's true." Dean tilted his head to one side as he looked at Sam. The pupils of his eyes glowed a deep, smoldering red.

Sam didn't move.

"Leave now, Sam. I mean it. Otherwise, I'm not responsible for what happens to you."

It was just like before, but different somehow, and Sam thought he could change it. He put his hand out, meant to touch Dean on the arm, and Dean was ghostlike, untouchable, just like he'd been before.

Dean snarled then, and he changed. He went down on all fours, became ancient and fearsome, bristling with fur and teeth. He lunged at Sam, and Sam had just enough time to realize that they were being watched before Dean's teeth fastened on his throat and his life bled out…

Maureen Reddington sat by the bed and watched Sam Winchester struggle against the ropes. He was tied down to all four corners of the bed by his wrists and ankles. Sam moaned in his sleep and Maureen stroked his forehead with her cold fingers. She pushed Sam slowly into a deeper sleep.

The yellow-eyed one gave strict orders not to hurt Sam, so she didn't. She just couldn't resist taking a look inside that shaggy head of his. She thought he was cute, and it intrigued her to find out that there were folks out there in the world whose families were even more fucked up than hers had been.


	12. Chapter 12 Ballistic

This chapter revolves around the brothers and Coyote. The sequence involving Dean and Lockridge is fairly intense, and I decided to stick with what Sam was going through, because that's the trigger for Dean. BlackIceAngel, here's your suggestion about Dean's TK, and I wanna thank you for it. Now, there_ are_ two torture sequences in this chapter, starting with section five. No blood, guts or knives, but it_ is_ torture, folks are not treating each other so kindly in this chapter, so I just thought I'd warn 'ya. It's not NC-17 or anything like that.

Chapter 13 will start off with Bobby Singer, and after that I promise you all our boys are going to be in one place. I didn't say things were gonna get better, just that Sam, Dean and Bobby would all be in the same place.

Spoilers: Faith, Hunted, In My Time of Dying

**Dog Eat Dog**

**Chapter 12: Ballistic**

**One**

He didn't lose consciousness. He wasn't sure about_ much_, but he was sure about _that_. It was more like a slow fade, from one place to another, and by the time it happened Dean was getting pretty damn sick and tired of the whole thing. After the roof came down on the house he sat under the tree in the front yard. And he waited.

Waited for Coyote to show up. Waited for Coyote to do…something. Any damn thing. Dean still had the railing from Sam's crib in the grass next to him. He'd killed the thing with John Winchester's face with it, and he was giving very serious consideration to staking Coyote thru the heart with it too. And he knew, _he knew_, that if Coyote died, he would too.

He was _so_ screwed.

He was a demon hunter who shared the same soul with a Trickster. Proof positive that the Dude Upstairs had an extremely whacked out sense of humor. There was also the little matter of what would happen if other hunters found out that John Winchester's eldest son wasn't really one hundred percent human after all. Gordon Walker found out from a demon he was torturing that Sam was supposed to go darkside in the coming war against humans, and that was all Gordon needed to hunt Sam.

Ol' Gordie was currently serving time in prison, but he was a slippery son of a bitch, and even if he didn't get wind of Dean's current situation and break out, there were other hunters out there that were just as bad, just as lethal, and the idea of nailing the Trickster Coyote's hide to the wall as a trophy had a certain kind of appeal that even Dean could appreciate.

Never mind that it was _his_ hide too.

He was _soo_ screwed.

Dean's life was pretty well fucked up _before_, what with Dad dying months ago and that whole "Sam will turn evil and if you can't save him, Dean, you'll have to kill him" thing hanging over his head, but _this_…. Up until now he really didn't think his life could get any screwed up than it already _was_.

Well, damn. He'd been wrong about _that_.

Two different personalities in one body, sharing one soul. It was pretty damn ridiculous when you really thought about it. The kind of thing you'd see in a Steve Martin movie, or one of those really awful "original" movies starring John Stamos on the Sci-Fi Channel. It was stupid and funny at the same time. But it really wasn't.

It stops being funny when it starts being you.

Dean frowned as he idly ran his fingers through the thick green grass. He was thinking too damn much, and that was_ never_ a good thing. He always told himself that he wasn't very smart, that he never had much use for deep thought, but that wasn't true. The truth was, in the past year, especially, after Dad died, Dean didn't like some of the stuff he thought about. He'd always felt too deeply and cared too much, and now it was getting increasingly harder to stop himself from obsessing about damn near everything. It was getting harder to hide. That game face of his just wasn't working the way it did before.

A lot of things weren't working the way they did before.

The grass felt real against his skin, but he wasn't fooled by that, just like he wasn't fooled by the gentle spring breeze or the warm sunlight on his skin. He knew where he was. At least, he thought he did. This was Coyote's headspace, Coyote's territory.

And, if you could believe it, it was Dean's headspace too.

He leaned his head back against the rough bark of the tree trunk, and he stared into space. He had to get out. Had to go find Sam. He didn't even remember exactly what he'd done the last time to get out. He just thought about it, and it happened.

Couldn't be that damn easy.

He tried to quiet his mind. Hell, it wasn't easy. Stupid stuff kept popping up.

_There's no need to fear, Underdog is here!_

Shit! He had to stop watching too many damn Saturday morning cartoons. When he got out of here.

_Yeah, when. If. _

He couldn't feel Coyote anywhere, which was a definite plus. Not that it mattered. Coyote could fade in right on top of Dean, without warning, if he wanted to. Dean put one hand on the railing of the crib, placed it across his lap.

No sense in worrying about shit he absolutely couldn't control.

Dean's breathing slowed, deepened. His eyes unfocused. It was like staring at one of those Magic Picture things, where if you unfocused your eyes and looked at it in the right way another entirely different picture would come into view. Dean never could see anything whenever he stared at one of those damned things, so he usually growled and said it was a fucking waste of time and he turned his attention to something else.

He felt something. It was faint at first, just an impression, and his eyes widened in shock.

_Sam. It was Sam._

It was the difference between seeing a photograph of the person and seeing the person himself. Dean got an overwhelming sense of…Sam-ness. Voices and images all jumbled together. He heard his own voice, lower, different, and Sam's voice, echoing down a tunnel….

_I did this for you, Sammy. I did this all for you…_

…_It's not enough. It never was… _

_Dean, that's not right. Why are you saying these things to me?_

_Because it's true…_

Solid ground underneath his feet, and that fade in sensation that he'd grown to hate, and he stood at the foot of a bed, somewhere, staring at Sam, staring at his brother tied down by his wrists and ankles to all four corners. Sam's eyes were closed, and he was obviously completely out of it. This sour looking redhead sat in a chair next to the bed, and she had her hand on Sam's forehead.

"Sam? Sammy?" Dean growled deep in his throat, and he rounded the bed.

His blood thundered at his temples and his right hand was already curled into a fist. He didn't usually hit women, but in Red's case he was surely going to make an exception. He was about three feet away from her when he slammed right into something that knocked him back, right on his ass. Dean saw stars, all the major constellations in one large painful white flash, and he sat there on the floor, his back against the wall. The back of his head thumped back and knocked against the wall, a good solid lick.

_Son of a bitch…_

He growled again when he got up, and this time his approach was a little more cautious. He reached out with his hands, felt around for whatever the hell this thing was. He was stopped short again. He squinted and could see a faint shimmer of energy around the bed, around Sam, and this time the redhead looked around. Her eyes widened. She looked right at him, and Dean had to admit the fear he saw in her eyes made him feel good.

He ignored her then, concentrated on Sam. She jerked her hand away from Sam's forehead and Dean pounded on the wall with both fists.

"Sam! Sammy!"

Sam stirred a little. "D-Dean?"

The pain in his right arm stopped him, staggered him. It felt like someone had nailed him with an ice pick, a sharp jab of searing red pain in the inside of his right elbow that made him stagger back, sent him right back down on his knees. He groaned out loud. He felt…weird. Light-headed. Dean blinked. Slowly.

That was it. His eyes closed and opened, in less time than it takes to tell it, and even before he opened his eyes again he could tell that everything had changed.

The white tile floor felt cool underneath his bare feet. He looked down at his body and instead of his brown leather jacket, black t-shirt, blue jeans and boots he was dressed in the same patient blues that he'd seen Coyote wear. Dean was in restraints, sitting upright in one of the chairs in the exam room, and that should have pissed him off. It should have, but it didn't.

There was a bandage on the inside of his right elbow. The skin there felt bruised, sore.

Fingers on his skin. Someone touched him, lifted his head up, and somehow he wasn't surprised when Lockridge's thin mousy face swam hazily into view. Petrie and Sniegoski were in the room too, looming off in the distance just far enough away for him to make out their blurred faces. He was having trouble seeing straight.

There was some sort of green light blinking behind Lockridge, right over his shoulder, and Dean had to squint to bring it into focus. Once he realized that it was the video camera on a tripod on the table he relaxed again, and he didn't think about it anymore.

Dean felt_ very_ agreeable. To everything. Nothing was a secret anymore. He'd tell Lockridge everything. All the bastard had to do was ask.

"Hello, Dean."

It wasn't a question and it didn't require an answer. Dean recognized his first name so he looked at Lockridge and waited.

Lockridge stared back, stared at Dean's eyes, his skin and his face, and ordinarily that would've been awkward as hell. Being touched and stared at by someone he didn't know and didn't like was something Dean hated.

Dean sat quietly, patiently, as Lockridge's fingers tilted his head up and slightly back and Lockridge nodded his approval.

"I think this new combination of drugs suits you better. I'm still surprised that you were able to lie the last time. Bon Scott." Lockridge shook his head. "Petrie tells me that's the name of a dead rock star. But you're something of a celebrity yourself, aren't you?"

"…y-yes…"

"What's your real name? I know what it is. I just want to hear it from you."

"…Dean…Michael…Winchester…."

"Winchester. Like the rifle?"

"..like…like the rifle…"

"Good," Lockridge petted Dean's face the same way you would pet your dog or cat. "No more lies, Dean. I'm always disappointed whenever someone like you just doesn't understand that we're here to help you get better." Lockridge walked around the chair, lightly brushed his fingertips over Dean's arm, his neck and shoulder.

Dean sat there. He waited.

"You're in the FBI database. Suspected of serial murders in St. Louis and at that bank robbery in Milwaukee last month. Credit card fraud. Grave desecration." Lockridge raised his eyebrows behind his thick glasses. "I thought there was something special about you. Something kept nagging at me. I couldn't get you out of my mind. You're different from the usual whack jobs and nut cases we get through here. By the way, the FBI knows you're here. I thought we'd have another session before they get here. I want to help you, Dean. When you go to trial I can testify on your behalf. You want me to help you, don't you? Go on, you can say it."

"…yes…please…"

"All right. Tell me about your father. John Winchester."

_**Two**_

Coyote sat leaning against the corner of the ruined wall where he'd been confined for over twenty two years. It was the last place Dean would look for him. Didn't really matter, anyway. After he sat down Coyote couldn't get back up again.

His green eyes had turned a dull greenish-gray, and his skin was pale, waxy. He was vaguely aware of the beating of his own heart, and the way his breath hitched in his chest.

He felt cold.

Coyote felt himself drift off a little more, and he welcomed it. He didn't have the energy to waste trying to struggle. If Dean walked up on him now, he could end it. End both of them.

No sense in worrying about shit he absolutely couldn't control.

In the old days Coyote died many times. To say he cheated death implied that he never went down, that he was able to stay on his feet and shake it off. That wasn't true. He went into the darkness and he always came back. Always.

Now…he wasn't so certain. He had a feeling that if he went this time, he would stay gone, and for the first time in his life, that terrified him.

Dean didn't feel that way. Dean had accepted death a long time ago. He hadn't run when that Reaper had walked towards him. The kid might be crazy, but he hadn't run. Through that whole ordeal Dean had accepted his death. He fought for his life in the hospital after the car crash, and that was because he felt that John and Sam needed him. If it hadn't been for that, Coyote was sure Dean would've gone with the female Reaper. He was that close to accepting her offer, and he would have, if the yellow eyed demon hadn't interfered.

And now Coyote had to admit to himself, all those times when Dean was on the edge of dying, Coyote had assumed he'd burst free, assumed the ties that bound him to Dean would be dissolved and he'd simply go right back to being a demi-god.

He wasn't so sure about that now.

That was something new, for Coyote to feel apprehensive about dying. It was a different feeling, and he definitely didn't like it. There were a lot of things he didn't like about becoming ensouled, becoming flesh. Sharing the power, having it wax and wane between he and Dean, it was not what he expected, or wanted.

But he wasn't going to fucking cry about it.

He could adapt, or die.

**Three **

It was more than an impression. Dean was here. Sam could feel him. He sounded pissed off and concerned, and then, just like that, Dean was gone. Sam pulled slightly at the ropes around his wrists and ankles. He didn't struggle. No sense in wasting precious energy that way. Sam opened his eyes and looked around.

For a moment she reminded him of Ava. Just for a moment. Otherwise they were as different as night and day. Same general build, reddish brown hair, but after that the similarities ended. Ava had a genuinely sweet, cheerful expression. The corners of this one's mouth were turned downwards. She looked wary, suspicious of everyone and everything, which probably made her easy prey for the lies the Demon had told her.

One of the special ones, then, or else she wouldn't even be here.

She looked around, startled, then she stared back over to the side, toward the foot of the bed. She'd seen something. Something unexpected that spooked her. The fact that she was still basically human and _could_ be startled was good to know.

Sam cleared his throat. His mouth felt dry. "My name's Sam. What's yours?"

"Maureen. Mo's my…my nickname."

Sam rolled his shoulders as best he could and stared up at the ceiling. Some sort of symbols up there. It almost looked like a devils' trap, but the writing and the symbols were different. Some it looked like Latin. He tried not to stare at it for too long.

Bare light bulbs in the ceiling. The windows were boarded up and there was only the bed in the room they were in. No lamps, tables or pictures.

"What am I doing here, Maureen?"

She folded her arms across her chest. "He brought you here for safekeeping." She said stiffly.

Sam snorted. "Did he now?"

"Yes. You were being hunted. Did you know that?"

"My brother Dean already told me that," Sam said calmly.

She seemed to startle at the mention of Dean's name. Her lips twitched. "Your brother's dead."

"You don't know that."

"He says your brother's dead." She glanced over at that space near the side of the bed again.

"It's not a 'he,' that's an 'it.' A thing. And it lies. All demons lie."

"He cares about you, Sam. You should realize that by now."

"Cares about me? It murdered my mother when I was a baby."

She nodded. "I know that. That's why you and your brother and your father hunted him for over twenty two years. But you see, Sam, he forgives you. He does. He could have killed you, right then and there, in that motel room. He didn't. He's got a lot of compassion for people like us, a lot more than even my own family ever gave me."

There it was. "I feel sorry for you, then."

She sniffed. "I don't need your pity."

"He's using you, Maureen. He wants you to fight for him in that war he's got planned."

Sam arched his neck on the pillow, moved his shoulders from side to side again, and she moved back quickly, as though she thought he was going to try something. Sam stopped what he was doing, slowly, carefully. He didn't want to upset her. Not yet, anyway. No sudden moves.

He wasn't ready to leave yet.

_**Four **_

Dean tried to answer Lockridge, he really did, but his throat closed up and he couldn't speak. Being pumped full of drugs twice in twenty four hours tends to do that to the human body. His mouth and throat felt dry, raw. Lockridge went over to the table by the far door and poured some water from the pitcher into a glass. He was making a big show of giving Dean water, and ordinarily that would have irritated the hell out of Dean, but now he blinked slowly and didn't even seem to notice. He allowed Lockridge to put the glass to his lips but he didn't react until Lockridge nodded to him. Then Dean tilted his head back slightly and drank the whole glass. Lockridge petted him on the shoulder, soft brisk strokes.

Dean cleared his throat, tried again. "My dad was a hero," he said hoarsely.

Lockridge nodded.

"He…he took care of me and my brother Sammy after my Mom died. Then when I got bigger I looked after Sammy while Dad went out hunting."

"I see. And what did your father hunt?"

Dean shrugged. "Spirits. Ghosts. Demons. Things your worse nightmares wouldn't touch."

"And why did your father decide to go on this crusade, Dean?"

"My Mom," Dean whispered, and he suddenly looked and sounded like a very small boy. "A demon killed her. Made her bleed. Burned her on the ceiling of Sammy's nursery."

"Is there anyone else inside with you that I should know about? Any personalities that you've kept hidden from me?"

"Coyote." Dean said simply.

"Coyote?"

"He's a Trickster. From the desert southwest."

"And…how did Coyote get inside you, Dean?"

"He got lonely. Wanted a family. They ensouled him inside my body."

"I see. Do you get along with Coyote?"

"Hell, no." Dean frowned and shook his head.

"So the two of you fight all the time."

"Yes."

"I need to talk about your brother Sam in a moment or so, but right now there's something else I have to ask you, Dean. Earlier this evening some of the other patients were seen coming out of your room. Why?"

"I don't know what you're talking about…"

Petrie stood next to the camera. Lockridge turned around and looked at him and Petrie leaned over, pushed a button, and the green light went off.

Dean didn't feel anything about _that_ one way or another.

He should have.

"Why were those patients in your room, Dean? Is something going on that I should know about?"

"I wasn't there. Coyote was out --- "

Dean's head rocked back. He hadn't even seen Lockridge's hand _move_.

_**Five**_

The kid standing at the foot of the bed seemed to be the youngest, about fifteen, maybe sixteen years old. He had a mean glint in his eyes, the same glint Sam had seen in countless other bullies' eyes, in just about every school he'd ever been in. That look said _no mercy, and I will fuck you up in a heartbeat so please, give me an excuse_.

Sam lay quietly on the bed. Maureen had moved off quickly when this kid entered the room. It was kind of like watching those National Geographic specials Dean was so crazy about, about the top predators, big cats, wolves and coyotes. Maureen averted her eyes, and went all subordinate, wouldn't look at the newcomer. Sam felt uneasy. The kid smirked at him and right then and there Sam decided that Dean was the gold metal champ at smirking. Dean's smirk was good-natured. This kid just looked downright mean when he did it.

He snapped his fingers, and when he did bright yellow sparks flew between his fingers.

"They tell me you're something special, huh?" the kid said. "You special, dude?"

Sam didn't say anything. The pit in his stomach got a little bigger, a little heavier.

The kid leaned over and put his hand on Sam's foot.

Electric sparks flowed up into the folds of Sam's clothing. His back arched. He forgot how to breathe.

The world went painfully white.

_**Six**_

Dean blinked rapidly as the world went white momentarily. The side of his face stung.

Anger, panic, and fear rose up in him, tried to surface through the haze in his mind.

"I …I told you the truth. I'm not lying…I'm not…"

_Nothing I ever do is ever good enough_, Dean thought wildly. _No matter what I do, it's never enough. I lost Mom. Dad…_

_Sam…_

_Oh God, Sam…_

Dean stiffened as he felt an electric shock course up his back and his legs. His muscles twitched.

Lockridge quirked an eyebrow at him.

"Are they planning an escape?"

"I told you, I don't know---"

The flat side of Lockridge's hand struck the side of Dean's face again. Dean's skin burned. He strained against the straps. He could sense Sam in the room but he couldn't see him. He could see the white haze surrounding his brother, but he couldn't reach him. Dean didn't understand why any of this was happening. He'd done what Lockridge asked him to. He'd told the truth.

"…not lying…I'm not -- "

"Dean, do you really expect me to believe that? Now, let me understand this. You're locked in a battle with the Trickster Coyote for the possession of _this_ body, the body you two share between the two of you." Lockridge shrugged. "It's original, I'll give you that. So that's your excuse. You were submerged inside your body at the time so you don't know what happened while those patients were in your room. Is that it?"

Dean nodded warily. He pushed back in the chair and he kept his eyes on Lockridge's hands.

Lockridge's thin mouth set in an even thinner, harder line. "Now, you're obviously trying for an insanity defense, but you're going to tell me what went on in your room tonight. Don't make me hurt you, Dean. Don't make me do that."

Dean groaned and arched his back. Sam was hurting, he could feel it….

Lockridge leaned forward. They were nose to nose and Dean had nowhere else to go. "Let me make myself clear. I worked hard to get to where I am now. Nothing goes on in this place that I don't know about. Nothing." Lockridge leaned forward, put one hand around each of Dean's wrists, bore down with the weight of his body, and squeezed, hard. Dean bit back a grunt of pain. "There will be no escape attempts, not on _my_ watch, and if anything else is going on you _will_ tell me about it."

"Please…I have to go to my brother…He's the only family I have left. They're hurting him…please…"

That was all it took. Lockridge looked up, past Dean, and nodded. Out of the corner of one eye Dean saw Sniegoski's beefy arms come around in front of him with another sheepskin-lined restraint strap. Sniegoski looped the damn thing around in front of Dean, over his neck, then back through the slots in the chair. Sniegoski tightened the straps and

Dean saw stars again as the back of his head thudded up hard against the tall wooden chair back.

It was a tight fit. Dean tried not to breathe so hard, so fast. This was bad and about to get so much worse….

_Sam? Sammy?_

"Now, since the FBI is coming to take you into custody, I can't be as persuasive as I usually am, with electroshock treatment, and all that. And we can't beat you, either." Lockridge regarded Dean with pale brown eyes. "That would be inhumane."

The next strap was made of canvas. It went around his chin, tilted his head back, arched his neck at an awkward angle.

Lockridge stood there watching Dean, and when he saw Dean exhale he stepped forward and clamped the palm of his hand down over Dean's mouth. He pinched Dean's nose shut between the thumb and forefinger of his other hand.

_**Seven**_

Sam arched his back as far as the ropes would let him. The skin along his back tingled and stung, straight down to the bone. His muscles jumped and jittered in place. The pain was worse than any pain he'd ever felt in his entire life. At one point the top of his head and the heels of his feet were the only parts of his body touching the bed. His breath was caught in his lungs. He felt like he was going out…

The kid pulled his hand away.

Sam collapsed back into the bed. He was frozen for a moment, then his body began to react, to unfreeze. He was able to pull air back into his lungs, and his muscles felt weak, rubbery.

His mind began to clear, slowly. He lay there breathing shallowly, knowing that it was about to get much worse. And that suddenly didn't matter, because he could feel Dean. He could hear Dean.

_Sam?…_

"Now, see, that's why I'm important around here," the kid said. "I got a real talent. I can persuade folks. Persuade 'em to do whatever the hell I want. None 'a that brainiac powers of the mind crap." He tapped Sam's foot twice with his hand. Nothing happened, but Sam flinched anyway.

The kid laughed. "Just joshing with you, boy. That's all." He folded his arms on the footboard and leaned forward. "Now, if you're really good, we'll untie you. Let you up." You can go to the bathroom, walk around in the house." He shrugged. "Hell, maybe we'll even give you something to eat. I wouldn't go outside, though. Those things are out there looking for you. And speaking of fucked up--- "

The kid touched Sam's foot again. Sparks flew, and Sam bit back the scream rising in his throat.

_**Eight**_

Dean's chest sunk in. His eyes bulged out slightly. Lockridge tightened his grip, bore down with his weight. Dean could smell lemon-scented hand soap on Lockridge's skin.

It wasn't so bad. At first. In the first fifteen seconds Dean actually thought he could work thru it, that it wasn't going to be so bad. Then the burning ache in his lungs and throat quickly convinced him otherwise. He strained against the straps. The cords of his neck stood out, and his heels drummed against the thick wooden chair legs.

Dean could hear himself making sounds, muffled moans and whimpers. He tried to call out Sam's name out loud but he couldn't.

Lockridge never took his eyes off him. Dean tried to pull his lips back, tried to bite him, and Lockridge hollowed his palm. The burn in Dean's chest grew, seared into all his nerves from his body and into his brain. His hands hooked into claws.

Lockridge's face blurred and the room darkened.

Dean's back arched. His eyes rolled back into his head.

_Dean, where – where are you---?_

Something familiar splintered behind Dean's eyes, in the midst of all the pain and burning and confusion.

The small glass window set in the door behind Lockridge cracked. A small jagged crack stitched its way diagonally across the window pane. That was a private hallway that led directly back to Lockridge's office.

Nobody noticed.

Petrie moved up closer so he could get a better look. He didn't see the glass pitcher on the table next to the door crack. The water inside poured out, and dripped onto the floor. The three glasses on the tray cracked; small cracks that grew larger and finally split the thick crystal surface in two.

The lens on the video camera was next. The glass grew cloudy, like a cataract, and the lens cracked in a spiderweb pattern.

It went unnoticed.

Lockridge removed his hands and Dean drew in great whooping gasps of air into his starved lungs. It burned. It hurt like a son of a bitch, but he could breathe, at least.

"S-Sam? Sammy?"

Until the next time Lockridge put his hands on him again.

Sniegoski leaned around the chair, slapped one big dingy paw on Dean's shoulder as he gasped and panted for breath. "Better tell him what he wants to know, freak," he said, laughing. "You don't wanna get ol' Doc Lockridge all riled up, do 'ya?"

Dean actually cringed when Lockridge took a step towards him.

"pl—please, no…don't…I'll tell…I'll…tell…"

Sniegoski gave Dean a couple of slaps on his jaw. "That's a good little freak."

"…please…"

Dean's lips moved, but Lockridge couldn't hear him. The straps held him upright, but he slumped to one side and he closed his eyes.

The door behind Sniegoski shook. It sounded like somebody on the other side was rattling the doorknob. They wanted in, and they wanted in NOW. Lockridge looked up, and Sniegoski swung around in the direction of the sound. It couldn't be the damn FBI. Not yet. It was too soon. Other staff, maybe. Lockridge decided to fire whoever it was on the other side of that door.

Lockridge stepped in, grabbed a handful of Dean's hair and viciously yanked his head forward, as far as the straps would allow.

Which, considering what happened next, was a serious mistake.

Dean opened his eyes. Bright green eyes locked onto Lockridge's startled brown ones.

"You're really starting to piss me off," Dean growled roughly.

Lockridge jerked back. He backed up. It was a smart move, but by that time it was too little, too late. He could feel _something_, some vibration, rolling off Dean in waves. It rattled his brain and made the fillings in Lockridge's teeth ache.

_**Nine**_

_Get your fucking hand off my brother, you son of a bitch…_

The kid jerked around, startled. He couldn't see anyone, but it felt like someone was standing right next to him. Someone whispered in his ear. The voice was low, rough, and dangerous.

He recognized a fellow predator when he heard one.

Panicked, he stared at Sam, but Sam was shaking and trembling on the bed. He was still tied down. _It couldn't be this dork_, the kid thought. _Couldn't be._ He wasn't about to give up his advantage, so he kept the current flowing, and he didn't move his hand away.

"Dean?" Sam's eyes were faraway, distant, like he was seeing something that no one else could see. "Dean?"

The kid heard something growl right by his ear, and something grabbed him by the throat and forced him backwards. He had a quick impression of blue patient scrubs and short dark blonde hair. The kid stared right into the fiercest pair of green eyes he'd ever seen,

followed by a fist that slammed into his face. It was lights out.

_**Ten**_

The door gave a final shake, and the heavy silver knob shot off and nailed Sniegoski right in the small of his back. He went down on his knees, groaning. The doorknob ricocheted off the walls. It narrowly missed the video camera on the table, which really didn't matter because seconds later the camera came apart anyway, throwing black plastic, glass shards and metal everywhere in a violent spray. Petrie and Lockridge were closest and they ducked for cover, protected their heads and faces with their arms as best they could.

The doorknob bounced off the far wall, tore gouges in the paint and plaster, came back at an angle and clipped Sniegoski on the shoulder just as he was getting back on his feet. He hit the floor again, and it didn't look like he was going to be getting back up any time soon. The doorknob embedded itself in the far wall.

Dean was still strapped down in the chair. His eyes were glazed, distant. Petrie snarled and made a run at him. He didn't give a shit that the FBI was coming. He was going to cripple this bastard, and they could just wheel the freak out on a gurney for all he cared.

Petrie stopped short as something unseen gripped his body and tossed him sideways into the wall. The wall cratered underneath Petrie's body, and there was a sharp crack as his right arm broke. He hit the floor heavily, rolled over and tried to raise himself with his good arm.

Lockridge turned and bolted down the hallway to his office.

Petrie followed him, scrambling, crawling on his good hands and his knees.

_**Eleven**_

"Sam? Sammy?"

Oh God, he was so still, so pale. _Gotta get him out of here,_ Dean thought, and he didn't wonder where "here" was, or even how he got there. This wasn't some head-trick, this was _real_. Dean knew it, he felt it. He put his fingers on the side of Sam's neck and was relieved to find a pulse. It was weak, but Sam's heart was still beating. Dean staggered, threw a hand on the bed to steady himself. Tired. He wouldn't rest, couldn't, not until he got Sam out of this damn place.

_Hello, eldest. _The voice was a low gravely purr inside his head, and Dean felt his insides clench up at the sound of it.

He turned around and he was nose to nose with the kid. That wasn't the worst of it. If the kid had just gotten up and tried to sneak up on him, Dean could've handled that, beaten him down again, no problem, even on his worst day.

Turns out "worst day" didn't even begin to cover this one. The kid's eyes flared an intense, hellish yellow, and the last time Dean had seen those eyes and that bright, obscenely cheerful grin the damn Demon had been inside John Winchester's body.

It reached out, put its hands on Dean's face, and he couldn't back up, couldn't stop it. A shimmer of intense heat rose up around him. It sucked all the moisture out of the air around him, and took his breath away. His blood boiled in his veins. All the muscles in his body seized up, locked up deep and tight, all at the same time. His face felt hot and damp.

He went down on his knees, and the damn thing gently raised his head so it could stare into his eyes. It was the second time in an hour that someone Dean disliked touched him, stared into his eyes trying to assess him, to judge him, and it was the second time in an hour that he couldn't do a damn thing about it.

He raised one hand up against it, and his fingers shook like an old man's and the thing watched with some amusement as Dean put one hand on its chest, brushed his fingers down the kid's jacket front. That was all Dean had, all he could do, and they both knew it.

_You could be useful to me, you know…_

…_f-fuck –y-you…_

_Language, young man, language. _It smiled and shook its head. The kid's lips never moved, except in a goddamn smirk, and that damn voice grated on Dean's nerves. It made his head throb and ache. _You shouldn't talk to your betters like that_.

It cocked its head to one side, stared him up and down. _Think about your future, boy. You could be with your brother. With Sam. You don't do well alone, Dean. You should keep that in mind. I can help you with this …problem you're having. Help you keep it under control. I'm sure you've been having difficulties with it lately. _It sniffe_d. Those Tricksters can be prickly bastards to deal with. Pushy. Used to having their own way, wouldn't you agree?_

Dean shuddered. He was being pushed out, pushed back to his own body. He could feel himself fading out, and he hated that sensation, fucking hated it, he didn't want to leave Sam, but the Demon was pushing him out, and Dean could feel the straps around his body again, the slick surface of the exam chair against his back, the tile floor underneath his bare feet. A light touch at first, but it got stronger, pushing everything else aside...

It smiled at him. "Think about what I said," it whispered out loud. Its hot breath scorched the shell of Dean's ear. "And when you're ready, come back. We can negotiate." Dean closed his eyes and faded completely out, and the Demon chuckled.

It stood up, looked down at Sam, and that grin on its face widened. It had only the boys' best interest at heart. Dean and Sammy. A matched set of brothers at its peck and call would be ideal, and yet another way to torture John Winchester down in Hell. It had allowed John a small glimpse of what his eldest son was going through when the boy was nearly overwhelmed by all those thoughts and sensations back in that roadside diner, earlier on.

Winchester's anguish at the sight of his eldest son's misery had been _so_ much fun to watch.

And as for Coyote, well, that one could be broken, muzzled, taught to heel at his master's side. Its side. Not a problem.

It was patient. It knew one of them, either Dean or Coyote, would come back. The truth would serve its purposes just as well as a lie. Even better.

They weren't the only ones who could be tricky.

I'll post more next week. What, you think it's easy choreographing hell breaking loose?


	13. Chapter 13 Infernalis Adversaii

I would like to thank my friend shaedowcat over on Live Journal. Her brilliant essay, "Supernatural Theory: Speculation of a Biblical Proportion - The Grigori/Nephilim Theory" gave me a lot of insight as to the YED's background. Azazel is the yellow-eyed demon's name.

You're getting two chapters today, folks! I know you're going to review and let me know whether ya loved it, or hated it.

Ilimu!Dean is with Bobby.

Warnings: weirdness, violence, cussing. Old school blood sacrifice in section two.

You have been warned.

Disclaimer: I don't own Supernatural; I'll give the boys back when I'm done (maybe).

Spoilers: Route 666, Something Wicked, Dead in the Water, Wendigo, In My Time of Dying, Nightshifter

**Aand cue chaos…**

**Dog Eat Dog**

**Chapter 13 Infernalis Adversarii**

**Roadway Inn**

**Room 19A**

**Vashon. Illinois**

**One**

"Exorcizamus te, omnis immunde spiritus, omnis satanica potestas, omnis incursion -"

The right front headlight of the Impala broke first, in a heavy crunch of thick glass.

And Bobby ignored it.

"--infernalis adversarii, omnis legio, omnis congregatio et secta diabolica, in nomine –"

The Impala's left front headlight was next.

"--Domini nostri Jesu Christi, eradicare et effugare a Dei eradicare et effugare a Dei"

"Dean's" eyes turned black, then rolled back into his head. He moaned deep in his throat, pulled feebly at the ropes around his arms.

Bobby ignored the gunshots, the screams, the crunch of metal in the distance. From the sound of it the natives were getting real restless and way too lively out there beyond the walls of Room 19A. It wasn't normal for a Friday night, and Bobby knew it.

Bobby ignored it all.

"Ecclesia, ab animabus ad imaginem Dei conditis ac pretioso divini Agni sanguine redemptis ---"

The windshield of his truck disintegrated next in a huge explosion of glass, and yeah, that was the sound of a crowbar hitting metal, and all the while he could hear all three of those chimp bastards jumping up and down on the hood, screeching and shrieking. A couple of them had a lot of grey hair around their face and chins. They weren't young, he could tell that.

If Bobby had anything to say about it they wouldn't be getting any older, either.

They couldn't get in. If they could have they would have come in already. Between the salt lines and the protection amulets on the windows and the doors, the devils' trap on the ceiling, they couldn't get in. It had been a tense fifteen minutes or so, while the sumbitches on the roof pounded and stomped overhead, and when they didn't make a move on the doors and windows, didn't come crashing through the ceiling snarling and howling at him, Bobby felt himself relax.

"How fucking stupid do you think I am," Bobby growled then. Condie had looked up at him expectantly, ears cocked, wanted to get out there, and it was the one thing he couldn't let her do. She'd faced down a black dog or two in her day, and lived to tell about it. This girl was a little too brave for her own good.

They were trying to spook him into doing something stupid, like shooting out the windows, smearing the salt lines, making a way in _for_ them. That was a rookie mistake, something that Bobby hadn't done even when he was green as hell and just starting out, years ago.

" -- imperat tibi excelsa Dei Genetrix Virgo Maria, quae superbissimum caput tuum a

primo instanti immaculatae Conceptionis in sua humilitate contrivit -- "

Bobby stopped. "Dean" sat there, head cocked to one side, smirking, drumming his fingers on the armrests of the chair in time to the words. He smirked, when he should have been screaming, should have been pouring out of "Dean's" mouth in a boiling cloud of black smoke, fire and ash, up into the devils' trap on the ceiling.

"Dean" quirked an eyebrow at him. "Geez, Bobby, doesn't look like your shit is working tonight, is it?"

A quick glance up at the ceiling, and there was a large crack up there, running diagonally across the devils trap. Condie growled then, deep and low in her throat, and her eyes went all killer as she made a run at him, but it didn't do any good. "Dean" nodded at her and the dog went flying, backwards into the door.

"What a nice dog," "Dean" said sweetly.

Bobby felt his entire body gripped by a wave of force that chilled his skin and raised goosebumps. He was frozen, rooted to that one spot. His fingers twitched and the rosary and the book slipped out of his nerveless fingers. "Dean" snapped the ropes, first one arm, then the next, and the ropes around his ankles slipped off by themselves.

He stood up, flexed his arms and legs.

"Well," "Dean" smirked, "This has been a lot of fun, but I've got a lot of stuff to do tonight." And that grin got even wider. "So little time, so many people to fuck up and kill. Now, you wouldn't happen to know where Dean and Sam are, would you, _Robert_?" It made his Christian name sound like a curse word.

It chuckled when it saw Bobby's eyes widen in shock. "You thought your boy was possessed? I'm much more than that, you old bastard." It waved its hand and Bobby was jerked backwards, pinned against the far wall, and God, it felt like every bone, every muscle in his body was being squeezed, then pulled, stretched out tightly in the opposite direction. His pulse thundered in his head, and he could hardly breathe.

"Dean" walked forward, made a big show of brushing dust off the shoulders of his leather jacket. "Sam called _you_. You must have some idea where they'd hole up. They couldn't just disappear like that. We just wanna play with 'em, that's all." It cocked its head to one side. "That's it? Nothing to say? Cat got your tongue, old man?"

Somehow Bobby was able to gather enough spit, leaned forward just enough to spit directly in its eyes.

It laughed as it wiped its eyes with one hand. "Now, I'd expect that kind of thing from Dean or Sam, but not you, Bobby. You should be more of a role model to those boys, especially since their dear old daddy is roasting down in hell." It shook its head as it walked over to the door. Through the haze of pain Bobby watched as it smeared the salt line with one booted foot. Bastard flinched a little, but it didn't stop until the salt line was totally fucked up.

Then it threw open the door.

The night sky didn't look right.. It was about eleven o'clock at night, should have been pitch black, but it seemed lighter. Thick streaks of red stretched across the sky, and lightning flashed in the distance. Bobby caught the smell of sulfur in the night air, and the demon, the shapeshifter, whatever the hell this thing was wearing that copy of Dean's face and body stopped for a moment, closed its eyes, scented the night air, frowning. It opened its eyes again and motioned impatiently.

The dude with the baseball bat came in first, cautiously, as though he expected a hunter to jump out at him. The chimps slowly slid off Bobby's truck, and the dogs padded in after them. They gathered around Condie as she lay there on the floor, and even frozen she bared her teeth at them. One of the chimps ran its fingers over her fur. The damn thing jerked back as its fingertips burned from the holy water Bobby had doused the dog with earlier in the day.

Several of the bastards roamed throughout the room, sniffing at the laptop, The duffels on the beds. Dean's clothes. They crept into the bathroom, raised up the blankets, looked under the beds. Nothing.

Baseball Bat Dude went over and struck Condie on the head and body, repeatedly. The dog yipped and lay still.

"…you…you sumbitches…"

"Geez, Bobby, lighten up." "Dean" said. "It's just a dog. Now, how about us having a boys night out? Maybe we can catch up with Dean and Sam, have a good old time out here." It turned and looked out at one of the dogs still standing on the sidewalk, and Bobby's insides tightened at the sight of the damn thing. It was a huge brown mastiff. It stared at Bobby with sunken, hollow dark eyes, and the damn thing's skin rippled and flowed as something slid underneath the surface. It moved jerkily thru the door, as though it had to remember how to move first one leg, and then another.

It was just as tall as Bobby when it stood up on its hind legs, one forepaw on either side of his face. It opened its mouth wide and Bobby struggled, but there was only darkness.

**Two**

No more water, the fire this time.

Well, it wasn't exactly fire, but it would do.

Billy Boy wasn't long for this world. Azazel looked out of Billy's normal brown eyes, now turned a murky yellow, and what it saw was good. The sky overhead was streaked blood red, maroon intermingled with black, as far as the eye could see. Vashon and its borders had shifted a little ways from reality. Azazel had made some sacrifices to get this far, and it was prepared to make some more.

The Demon really hated to get rid of such a valuable asset, but it also needed to make an example of Billy to the others.

Never disobey Father.

It figured John Winchester, of all people, could appreciate such a sentiment.

Years before it had watched with interest in Fort Douglas, Wisconsin, the way dear old John had disciplined his eldest, nine year old Dean, after Dean disobeyed a direct order and left young Sam alone. After driving off the shtriga that nearly killed Sam, John decided the best way to teach Dean a lesson was to completely ignore the boy, and lavish all his attention on Sam.

Five year old Sam became loud and demanding; nine year old Dean became almost psychotic in his desperation, loneliness, and torment. Winchester gave the boy the silent treatment for an entire month. It nearly broke the boy, and he hadn't disobeyed John's orders since.

It was one of the things the Demon truly admired in humans, their capacity for physical and mental torture, especially when it was done with "good intentions."

It didn't have any.

The Demon had given strict orders for Sam Winchester not to be harmed, had even taken precautions to hide Sam while those Ilimu were on the loose, and one of his own special children was the one who tried to kill the Winchester boy. It shook Billy's head regretfully. Even a father has to discipline his children.

This the others would remember.

He –it – looked down at the chalk outline in the streets. It stood in the middle of the sigil, and raised the bayonet in its hand. It was awkward handling the knife, since a half hour before it had neatly chopped off most of the fingers of Billy's right hand as an offering. It would do just fine, though. It let Billy emerge just enough out of the darkness, and its eyes dimmed a little as Billy looked out for the last time, and saw the knife.

_No, wait…I didn't mean…please, you can't do this…you can use me, you know that—_

_Yes, that's right, William. I'm using you right now…_

The boy's rough voice rose in a scream inside his own head as the Demon raised the knife and said the words: I call upon the guardians of the

Billy was still screaming on the downstroke, and it smiled as the knife plunged into his bellybutton, through his clothes, and it was still smiling as it pulled the knife upwards and disemboweled the boy.

It stood there in the street, smiling, and it hardly even noticed as Billy's blood and intestines flowed onto the street. The sigil glowed in the moonlight, reflected the light of the streetlamps overhead. It raised Billy's arms over his head, and the wind came up, whistling and moaning over the rooftops, over the trees.

Soon everything would be set right. This would be a test, a dry run of one of the techniques it intended to use in the coming war. Those Ilimu would be gone. And, of course, the Winchester brothers. One way or another, Dean would be coming back. It already had Sam. The pull that one had over his older brother was irresistible.

The pavement beneath its feet began to crack, and it stood there watching with that bright sly smile on its face.

**Three**

Sam struck out wildly. His back slammed against something hard and solid. Icy cold pressed against his forehead, and for a moment it burned, just like it had before. Someone had their hands on him, and he couldn't see.

"Sam? Damn it! Sam?"

Maureen.

He groped blindly towards the sound of her voice. Sight was all shot to hell, and she was nothing but a blur. He couldn't be sure that that other bastard was in the room, standing there just out of reach, watching, waiting for another chance at him. Every muscle in his body felt weak, drained. The taste in his mouth was heavy and sour, and his throat raw, like he'd swallowed ground glass.

"Sam, wait. Wait! He's gone. Billy's not here. Look, I'm sorry he did that to you. He's not going to do that anymore." He felt her hands grip his wrist, and he felt like hitting her. She wasn't Dean. Dean had been here, in this place, but he wasn't anymore, and Maureen was just a poor substitute. His hands and feet were free, but Sam was too weak to do anything else but sit there with his back against the headboard.

"Here, drink this."

Sam blinked rapidly, but he couldn't get his eyes to focus. He felt the wet cold slickness of the plastic water bottle under his numb fingers and managed to get it to his mouth with her help. More went into his mouth than down his shirt front.

"Look, Sam, I'm sorry. Billy got a little carried away."

"A little?" Sam gasped when she pulled the bottle away. Better now. He could see her face, and she actually seemed sorry. And scared, for some reason. "A little? Why the hell should I even believe you? You left the room, let him come in here in the first place."

"I said I was sorry. He won't do it again."

Sam shook his head and immediately regretted it. His temples throbbed with every beat of his pulse. "Forget it. Look, my brother, Dean. Where is he?"

"What, I don't---"

"He's got short hair, green eyes. Brown leather jacket?"

Her eyes widened before she could catch herself.

"He was here. I could feel him." He reached out and shakily grabbed her by the arm. She flinched. "You've seen him, haven't you?"

"He wasn't real," Maureen whispered.

"Wh-what?"

"Sam, he wasn't real. Before Billy came in, while you were asleep, I saw your brother walk up to the bed, and…and he stopped. _It _stopped him." She glanced up at the ceiling, at the sigil over the bed. "It's supposed to stop spirits. _He_ told us to put it over the bed. Your brother's dead, Sam. I'm sorry."

Sam let go of her hand. "Dean's not dead. I'd feel it if he was."

"If he were alive that sigil wouldn't have stopped him. It stopped him cold."

Sam's jaw clenched despite the pain in his head. "Dean's not dead."

"Okay. But you have to think about yourself now. Let's say you're right. He might not be dead, but he's not here now, is it? And maybe it's better for him that he's not. He's not like us. Listen, if you promise to behave, we won't tie you down again. You can walk around the house. You know you can't go outside, not with those things outside. Not yet, anyway."

Sam snorted. "We? You mean there are other psychics in this rat hole of yours?" He glanced up at the doorway, locked eyes with a blond headed boy about his age. This one was shorter than Sam, and he had basically the same sour, hollow-eyed look that Maureen had. _God_, Sam thought, _do I look like that now? Is it that obvious?_

The blond just stood there, staring at Sam, wide-eyed. His body trembled, and it took Sam a moment to realize that he was scared. Scared shitless. Which meant that whatever was happening with Billy Boy right now wasn't good.

Maureen turned toward the doorway, frowning. "Travis, I told you not to come in here."

Travis blinked rapidly. "I can hear him screaming in the dark in my head, Mo. _He's_ got him." Travis nodded at Sam. "He fucked Billy up."

Maureen sighed. "No, Billy fucked himself up. He didn't listen, and in the dark is where it got him, Travis. Leave. Now. Stop listening to that."

Travis stared at the floor. "I can't."

"Yes, you can. Billy fucked himself up. We're fine, and we're gonna stay that way. Have you slept any tonight? I can help you with that. You look like crap."

He frowned, rubbed at his temples with a shaky hand. "I'm…I'm gonna go lay down for a bit." Travis turned and staggered out of the room.

"Maureen," Sam said slowly, "what did he mean, Billy's in the dark?"

She shrugged. "Billy tried to hurt you. Billy's being punished, Sam. That's all you need to know about that. There are three others in the house, besides me. The yellow-eyed man made arrangements for us to be cared for, like our families never did. We're not all like Billy."

Billy. Sparky. He wasn't an '83 baby, which meant this was something different. Something bad, different from the pattern he and Dean had come to expect. There were more of those special children out there. Not all of them had nursery fires like Sam had, and if Billy Boy was any indication, they might be younger and a hell of a lot crazier than the other special ones the brothers had met so far….

"So that's it? That's how the demon takes care of you? Makes you hide like rabbits in a hole?"

She stiffened. "No. Your problem is being taken care of. He didn't want any of us to get in the way, to get hurt."

Sam's eyes narrowed. "Taken care of _how_?"

Maureen sighed heavily. "Just give me your word that you won't try anything stupid, Sam. You won't try to leave. I need to hear that from you."

Damn, he felt tired. Worn out. "All right. I give you my word I won't try to leave."

"Good. You want to get up now?'

"No. Just…leave me alone for a while, Maureen."

She frowned. Wasn't exactly what she wanted to hear, but she left him alone after that.

Sam took the water bottle, screwed the cap on tightly and pressed it gingerly against the space between his eyes. His head hurt. Hell, he ached like a sumbitch all over. The only comfort he had was that he knew Dean wasn't dead. He couldn't be. He'd have felt_ that_.

Sam knew he didn't imagine hearing Dean call out to him, and he sure as hell knew that something---_someone_ had stopped Billy from frying him. It was Dean. He could feel his brother's presence, his signature, even though the dark and the thunder of his heart as it tried to keep beating through those unbelievable white hot surges of pain. Going up against that fucking lunatic was a typical Dean Winchester move, and despite the pain in his neck and jaw Sam grinned slightly at the thought.

He laid back against the pillow, flinched slightly as his body protested the change in position, and closed his eyes. He felt something tickle the back of his skull, and he had an irresistible awareness of his brother just then. It was faint, a flicker of Dean's spirit, and Sam couldn't tell if it was faint because of distance, or if Dean was being confined in some way. Sam didn't open his eyes, didn't want to move, or even breathe too deeply, because if he did, he'd lose it, and right at that moment that was something he was not about to do.

_**Four **_

**Partial Transcript of 911 calls received by Vashon PD that night**

911. What is your emergency?

Yeah, I'm out here on the I-9, down the street from Madge's Dew Drop Inn and you guys oughta get Animal Control or somebody out here! There's some crazy shit going on out here! You got monkeys and dogs out here all over the road!

What? Sir, could you repeat that?

"I said you got dogs and monkeys out here on the I-9! They're on top of cars, smashing windows with baseball bats! Damn, I just saw two of them smash this guy's windows out and they drug him out of his car…they…they beat the hell outta him! I'm backing up, getting the fuck outta here! I-- I got my windows rolled up and my gun's out, and these damn dogs are runnin' after the car ---Jesus Christ!

(Sound of glass breaking. Line goes dead)

Sir? Sir, can you hear me?

911. What is your emergency?

(Soft crying, sobbing)

911. What is your emergency?

(Child's faint whisper) …they're in the house….

What? Can you speak up? I can hardly hear you.

(Child Sobbing) p-please…they're in the house….

I need you to calm down so you can tell me what's going on, all right? Can you do that?

..a-all right…

I'm sending someone out to your address right now, all right? You have to tell me, who's in the house? Where are you?

…in the b-bathroom…my mama put me in here…told -- told me ta call 911…please, I can hear my mama outside, and she's crying, she's – she's askin' them to leave her alone…and…and they're not…they're growlin'at her…

(Screaming in background)

Mama! Mama! …they're killing her…they're ---

(Sound of door being unlocked) …help her…I hafta help my mama --

No, wait, don't go out there---

(Line goes dead)


	14. Chapter 14 Bleed Through

A/N: I had a very hard time finding a Navajo-English dictionary on line.

The Navajo translations are listed at the end of this chapter. I apologize to our Native American brothers and sisters if I mangled their language and have inadvertently offended them in any way. Doing the research is what took me so long in posting these chapters, but I think it's worth it.

This is Dean and Coyote's chapter. It's a little long, but I think you'll like it. Please review and let me know what you think.

_**Dog Eat Dog**_

**_Chapter 14 Bleed-Through_**

_**One **_

They hit him twice with the needle even as he came sliding back into his body, once in the arm and once in his chest, near his shoulder. The air shimmered in his ears, and his heartbeat slowed down. His breath rasped in and out of his lungs and it echoed in his ears like thunder. He could hear the commotion in the halls, the screaming of the other patients, smell the urine and shit in the air as some of the more sensitive ones lost control of their bladders. The patient in the room directly down the hall screamed as he thumped his head against the wall. "There's a beast in the halls! Didn't you see it? A beast in the hallway!"

The world was on one vibration; Dean was on another. He floated somewhere in between…the tether of his life to his body was stretched thin enough as it was. It was frayed, about to unravel, one strand at a time. All the energy flowed out of him, and he had no way of knowing what was going to happen next.

It was Coyote's turn, and Dean waited for him to take his best shot. One of Coyote's nicknames was the Magician, and Dean had no doubt that meant_ he_ was screwed, fucked up beyond all recognition, that the old boy would pull something else out of that bag of tricks of his, sever Dean's lifeline, and waltz away with full control of Dean's body, just as neat as you please.

Dean fought anyway. Struggled to take one more breath, willed his heart to pump one more time. One more time, and he got past that, then willed it to happen again, the next time, and the next. Determination and will against the chemical shit they'd pumped into his body. They'd given him too much. They were panicked, scared of him – the acrid taste and smell of their fear flooded his nose and mouth – someone twisted their fingers in his hair, pulled his head back and jabbed the needle in roughly, twice.

Hendricksen could take him back to Washington in a body bag just as easily. Dean knew that.

_Stubborn bastard. _It sounded like his voice. Or Coyote's voice. He couldn't tell which, and didn't care. He could barely keep his eyes open.

The bark of the tree trunk felt rough against the back of his head, and he had a bad moment when his sight blurred and he thought he was back at the house in Lawrence. Thought he was back in the front yard, with the Dad thing leaning over him, taking him by the shoulder, lifting him up, taking him back into the house.

Not this time. He felt a hand give his shoulder a brief, strong squeeze, and he could barely hear his own voice in a rough whisper_…lnáháláá._

_I gathered them_.

_Gathered--gathered who?_

The tree sat at the top of a hill in the middle of sand, rocks, and scrubs. It was huge, ancient, and its branches were full and thick, and it swayed gently and slowly in the warm sunlit breeze. The hill had a gentle enough slope downward, and Dean's vision slowly cleared, like fog lifting in retreat from sunrise. He glanced down at his body, and he was dressed in his brown leather jacket, black t shirt, worn blue jeans. It took an effort for him to lift his head back up.

There were people all around him.

_Mary Winchester. Alive and well and smiling as she tucked his four year old self in for the night._

_Mom. I saw you burn. I saw you burn that night, and I couldn't stop it… _

_Cassie. _

"_I'm a realist, Dean." She shook her head slightly. She looked sad, resigned. " I don't see much hope for us."_

"_Stranger things have happened. I've seen it. I believe that, Cassie…"_

_He hadn't seen her again in a year. He wanted to, but he didn't dare. Death followed him around, now more than ever. He had enough blood on his hands. Not hers. Never hers. _

_He saw Hailey and her brothers, Ben and Tommy, up in Black Water Ridge, Colorado. _

"_I don't even know how I could thank you."_

_Dean leaned back against the Impala and leered at her._

_She smiled in spite of herself. "Must you cheapen the moment?"_

"_Yeah!"_

_Hailey wondered about the look on his face as she kissed him on the cheek. He seemed…startled. Surprised that she responded to him, and not that cocky, smart ass mask he wore all the time. She saw the real Dean Winchester, and if she didn't know any better, the fact that she saw it made him uncomfortable._

"_I hope you find your father," she whispered, and she turned back towards the ambulance. Towards her life with her brothers Tommy, and Ben. _

_Layla O'Rourke. _

"_I'm not the praying kind, but I'll pray for you…"_

"_Well," she smiled sadly as she kissed him on the cheek. "That's a miracle right there…"_

_Lucas, with his mother…_

"_Now if you're gonna be talking now, you gotta say this often, and say it right."_

_Dean and Lucas said it together. "Zeppelin rules!"_

"_That's my man, High five…" and they slapped palms lightly._

"_You saved my son." Andrea said with a sad smile. "That's more than I could have asked for."_

_Michael and Asher, the kids he and Sam saved from that shtriga in Fitchburg, Wisconsin last year. _

"_You said you're a big brother?" Michael asked._

"_Yeah," Dean said simply._

"_You take care of your little brother?" Michael's eyes searched Dean's face for reassurance. "You'd do anything for him?"_

"_Yeah, I would." Dean turned slowly, looked back at Sam. _

"_Me too. I'll help."_

_Ellen and Ash, at the roadhouse. Jo, on the road, hunting alone._

They couldn't see him. They didn't even seem to be aware of each other. Each one had their own space, and somehow he knew they were thinking about him. It didn't hurt like it did before. The thoughts and images didn't crowd in on him, slicing at his brain and flesh, making his brain bleed and his heart gallop painfully in his chest like it had. It was slow and calm and easy. It felt right, like he was meant to do it all his life.

He searched the crowd of faces for his Dad. He didn't see him. If he was dying, and this was a flashback before everything went dark, John Winchester sure as hell should have been there somewhere. He wasn't. Neither was Bobby Singer, and Dean felt a pit form, heavy and sour, in his stomach. He spotted the one person out there who stared right at him and his heart clenched in his chest.

Sam.

Sam stood a little apart from the others, both hands jammed into his jacket pockets. He looked up at Dean, warmly, with a little grin on his face, and the grin and the warmth reached Sam's eyes, like he didn't even mind that Dean hadn't gotten him out of that godforsaken place, didn't even mind that Dean had failed him, left him with that yellow eyed son-of-a-bitch.

_Sam. Oh, God, Sammy…_

Dean arched his back against the tree, tried to push off, get to his feet, but he couldn't, and some unseen hand gently, firmly, pushed him right back down.

_Be still._

"Is this…some half-assed mystical trick of yours?" Dean said out loud hoarsely. It took everything he had not to slur the words.

_No. It's **your** half-assed mystical trick. _

"One last look at everything before you get rid of me, huh?"

_You wouldn't believe me if I said no. Believe this or don't, I don't give a fuck which. Maybe I'm not the asshole you think I am… _

He saw people he hadn't seen for years, from all the cities and small towns he and John and Sam had ever passed thru. He saw the teachers he'd liked in school (and there _were_ some, even though he acted blasé about it and wouldn't dare admit it to anyone). The people he'd saved on hunts were there: women, children, and men. They sat around the tree in a concentric circle that stretched towards the horizon, and in his mind's eye he could see all the way around the tree, even in back.

The people further out in the circle looked like people Dean had seen only in textbooks, and he _had_ paid attention in school…sometimes…it wasn't _always_ Schoolhouse Rock, Sammy. He saw Anasazi. Crow. Nez Perce, Flathead, and Navajo people, among others.

Red, black, white and brown people dressed in clothes from the last century, and before that, dressed in rough, dusty clothing.

He heard the thoughts and knew the stories of everyone out there, and they all had to do with Coyote. With…_him_. Some of the stories were funny, some were sexual. Some were downright tragic. Coyote tricked people, after all, and sometimes people died as a result of it. If you attracted Coyote's' attention for one reason or another, that was _not_ a good thing, in most cases.

Some of them saw the error of their ways, and survived, lived to tell about it. Some, like that rancher with the gold nugget rock up on the mountain in that blizzard, doomed themselves the moment they stubbornly refused to change.

Coyote didn't feel any remorse about_ that_.

Dean was surprised that a lot of the stories about Coyote had to do with hunting and killing things. Things that had targeted Coyote for some reason. Fuglies like that damned Thunderbird that Coyote had gone after, because it killed people. Coyote stole fire from immortals so Mankind could survive the harsh winter. He was disrespectful of other entities, especially the high and mighty ones. He got downright rude with them.

Deja fucking vu.

Most classes in school bored the hell out of Dean, even History, whether it was World or American, and while he didn't want to admit it, he'd always had a nagging sense of disquiet and déjà vu as he flipped thru those textbooks. Like he already knew the true stories, no matter what they wrote down in those books.

After Sam left to go to Stanford John concentrated on hunting in California, New Mexico and Arizona. Dean hadn't said a word, but he knew what was going on, knew why there'd been times when John would disappear, sometimes for a week or ten days at a time.

To check on Sam.

Hell, Dean had done it himself, more than once, after John got his truck and gave Dean the Impala. He didn't even have to do the math to figure out how long it would take to shag ass to Palo Alto and back on a full tank of gas. The thing is, he felt at home in those states, like he'd been there before.

But…he hadn't. He knew he hadn't.

At least, not in _this_ life.

Once he and his Dad had stopped at a roadside diner right off the interstate outside of Albuquerque. A Navajo family sat in the booth right behind Dean, the mother and father, two young kids and both grandparents. While John went to the men's room Dean sat there and half-listened to their conversation as he looked at the laminated menu.

…_let's see…_Something tickled at the back of his skull._ Hamburger…nahh, I'm getting kinda sick of that already…_

"…ahbínígo tłóógóó chínáshdááh…"

…. I always go outdoors in the morning….

…_hmmph… fried chicken…maybe fish, _Dean thought.

"…nahółtą́ą́lágo…"

…_I hope it doesn't rain…_

He sat there for another minute or so before he heard the mother ask for _ashįįh_ and without thinking, his eyes still scanning down the menu, Dean picked up the salt shaker on his table, turned around halfway and passed it over to her.

"Aahéhee'."

_Thank you._

Dean nodded, and he thought the words _You're welcome _in English, but _You're welcome_ in Navajo was what came out of his mouth.

He turned back around and stared at the menu.

Then he froze and his eyes widened.

Son of a bitch…what the hell was _that_?

The whole thing gave him a weird, spaced out feeling. His leather jacket creaked a little as he hunched down in his seat and he stared at the English words on the menu like they were a fucking lifeline.

A few seconds later they handed the salt shaker back, and he mumbled _No problem_ in English. He put it down quick, as if the slick glass surface burned his hand. He must've still looked weirded out though, because when John came back and slid into the opposite side of the booth he took one look, quirked an eyebrow at his eldest son and rumbled, "Dean. Something wrong?"

Fuck, the old man didn't miss anything. Dean damn near jumped out of his skin.

"Huh? Oh, no. No. Nothin'."

John gave him _that look_. He'd been getting _that look_ a lot lately from his Dad.

Dean spent the rest of the day making sure his expression didn't reach his eyes.

Occasionally he saw people on the streets who seemed awfully damned familiar, and he knew he'd never laid eyes on them before. A part of him recognized the vibration they gave off. It was otherworldly; it was _Other. _They would look at him and stop and stare and Dean would stare right back.

He chalked it up to nerves, but deep down inside he knew it _wasn't_. He just didn't know what the hell it _was_, and the feeling confused and angered him. He'd felt it before, on hunts, but he wasn't hunting at _that_ particular moment. What was he supposed to do, walk up to them, pull out his Desert Eagle, and start shooting? He ignored the hell out of that tightness in his gut that he felt _every damn time_.

When his Dad decided to head back to the Midwest a few days later Dean felt a sense of relief, though relief about _what_ he really didn't even know.

He knew _now_.

He had to be practically hit over the head with an impressive looking special effect that would've done Industrial Light and Magic proud, but he finally got it. He really did. All around him was_ his_ life. Coyote's life. Threads of the same crazy quilt pattern all mixed together, and yeah, it was fucked up, and a lot of the threads were broken and it didn't make sense at all, but it was _his_ fucked up life and no one else's but Coyote's….

He felt himself settle, and he felt stronger, and that was when Dean realized that none of this was working. That constant seesaw of power, back and forth, it wasn't working. Hadn't gotten him any closer to getting Sam out safely, and would probably end up getting all of them killed. Trying to take over from Coyote hadn't worked. They pulled back and forth at each other, wasting time, time that Dean knew they didn't have…

Out of the corner of his eyes he saw Coyote sitting a few feet away. Dude wasn't looking so good…he was pale, with dark bruises underneath his eyes. His breathing was light, shallow. He wore a dark grey hoodie and blue jeans, and he looked sick, just like Dean had when he'd gotten out of the hospital, before Sam dragged him off to meet Roy LaGrange to heal his heart.

Dean looked down at his own hands, and they looked fine. Strong. Healthy. He spread his fingers, and his hands didn't shake. The power was swinging back in Dean's direction, then, and by the wary look on Coyote's face he fully expected Dean to kick his ass or something. Coyote leaned the side of his head against the tree and waited.

More proof that this back and forth shit wasn't working. Something had to give.

Had to be given.

All he had to offer was himself.

_Dude. Seriously. A hoodie?_ Dean thought the words at him, quirked an eyebrow.

Coyote squinted darkly at him. He was on the downward slide, obviously tired and very pissed off, but he wasn't about to kiss Dean's ass.

_So what? I like it._

_You and Sam have more in common than you think. You're both dorks._

_Bite me._

_You have to help me…_Dean thought the words, frowned, and shook his head. He was gonna fuck this up, he knew it. Coyote got this stubborn look on his face, his eyes went hooded and tight, and damn, did he always look that…_fierce_…whenever he got pissed off? It was like looking into a fucking mirror.

Dean tried it again. _Help me keep Sam safe from that yellow eyed bastard. Help me keep him safe thru this, and…and the war that's coming…and afterwards, when it's all over and Sam's safe… you…you can have this body. You can take it. I won't fight you. You can wall me up forever and I'll stay there. _

Coyote blinked in surprise. His face went totally blank for a moment. _What?_

_You heard me. I'm not going to repeat it. And you have to promise me you won't harm Sam, not now, not ever._

A low, rough chuckle, so much like his own. _A trick. Is that what this is?_

They shared the same headspace but they circled around each other, wary of traps and tricks, of each other.

_I'm giving you my word on this, _Dean growled._ It ain't much, but it's all I've got._

_You can't wall me up again. Not now, not ever._

_I'm not agreeing to anything until I hear what I need to hear from you. _

_Deal. I'll help you keep Sam safe, help you protect him, now and later. I won't hurt Sam. Ever. _

_All right. No more walls. _

A soft grey fog rolled in from the horizon, flowed up the hill, towards the tree. The people, the images and thoughts were background noise now, and soon even that would be gone. Dean felt the pain in his arm and shoulder where they'd injected him, and he fell heavily back against the tree trunk. He couldn't even turn his head to see where Coyote had got to.

Dean heard words in his head, words he'd even forgotten he knew, and he felt his lips move as he repeated them. The last person he saw before the fog swept in over him was Sam, still standing there, looking at him, all calm and smiling and peaceful, secure in the knowledge that his big brother was coming, that he would make everything right.

_God, Sammy, I hope I didn't just fuck up big time..._

The last words Dean thought in English floated across his fading consciousness like pale moonlight shimmering on a bottomless pond at night. Famous last words…

_Like father, like son…_

**Two**

"He's…he's in here." Lockridge stopped, fidgeted. He shifted from one foot to another. Hendricksen and Dufresne exchanged looks. Agents Faulk and Baker from the nearby, larger Mossman, Kansas Bureau office waited behind Dufresne. Hendricksen made an exaggerated gesture, swept his arm out. "After you."

Lockridge looked like he'd rather be anywhere but here. He didn't move until Hendricksen glared at him.

The good doctor had been acting really squirrelly from the moment they'd arrived. He refused to look them in the eyes and he jumped when Hendricksen and Dufresne flashed their tin on him. They'd met hospital administrators before, and the way they ran their facilities really depended on what kind of person they were inside.

The decent ones ran their facilities as fairly as they could under the circumstances. The power mad sumbitches acted accordingly, and then there were the ones who swung somewhere in between. Personally, Lockridge struck both agents as the power mad sumbitch type, the type that would look at them with his nose slightly wrinkled up like he was smelling a gas leak. The type that would try to play games, pissed off because they were here to pick up a patient that the good doctor could publish medical papers about for years.

This one had lost that high seddity look. Something had put the fear of God into him, and whatever it was had to do with Dean Winchester.

They'd both noticed that even at twelve thirty in the morning Norwood was roaring like it was twelve thirty in the afternoon. The patients were in an uproar, screaming, sobbing, bumping their heads against the walls, pulling at the doors trying to get out. On the way in Dufresne caught a glimpse of someone out of the corner of her eye. Pale skin, large grey eyes, dressed in blue. Female. Dufresne swore she could see straight through her. When Dufresne turned around to stare directly at her, whoever it was, _whatever_ it was, had vanished.

It was an optical illusion, a trick of the light, and hell no, she wasn't about to mention this to Hendricksen. Dufresne didn't know what she expected when she stepped into Norwood's lobby, but it sure in the hell wasn't _this_.

The two deputies from Norwood PD were already inside the room, along with two of the white shirted hospital orderlies. The orderlies leaned against a large table that was pushed up against the wall. They were both big men, and Dufresne could tell by the set of their faces that they weren't too thrilled about being there. The other thing she noticed was they were both beat halfway to hell.

Petrie's head was bandaged up, and with all the bruises and the stiff way he held himself he obviously came out on the losing side. Sniegoski held himself in a stiff, protective manner. Each man was taller, heavier, twice as large as Dean Winchester.

They glared at the agents as they walked in, and she'd seen that kind of look before, on the looks of the perps and unsubs that they'd brought in: a somewhat glassy eyed stare, disbelieving. These were men who were used to having their own way, and they didn't take too kindly to being frustrated. Their fists were huge and Dufresne was pretty sure that they would have no problem using them on a patient, disruptive or otherwise.

The white floor tiles were chipped and cracked. A doorknob was embedded halfway in the far wall. Pieces of black plastic, metal and glass were everywhere on the floor. There was a large crater in the wall more than halfway up the wall, and Dufresne recognized it as the kind of crater made by a body, picked up and thrown into the wall with great force. There were cracks in the wall, cracks in the ceiling. A lot of the white ceiling tiles had been pulled up, cracked around the edges.

Dufresne glanced sideways at Hendricksen. He wasn't given to flights of fancy; he was one of the most level headed, realistic men she ever knew. But this….the damage seemed to radiate outward, in a circle, from the center of the room, and the only thing at the center of the room was an exam chair, and the person strapped down in the exam chair was Dean Winchester.

Damn, even bruised up and in restraints the boy was gorgeous, Dufresne thought. It was a damn shame; those mug shots didn't do him justice. His mouth was bruised and swollen, and there was some bruising on the left side of his face, near his eye. He was dressed in a black hoodie, faded blue jeans, and tennis shoes. Apparently they had sedated him and then dressed him for the trip, and they'd been none too gentle about it. His head was down, and his eyes were distant, glazed over. He kept pulling, twisting at the straps with his wrists.

Dufresne turned and glanced at Petrie, and in her minds' eye she could see Petrie as he punched Winchester in the face, hear Petrie as he snarled at the drugged man, "Here's one for the road, freak."

Petrie shrugged. He held his right arm close to his side. "He gave us trouble, we gave him the needle. We kept his ass here for you. What more do you want?"

Hendricksen sneered a little. In Milwaukee Sam and Dean Winchester had disarmed two highly trained SWAT team members, took their guns and uniforms, stripped them down to their underwear and left them tied up in a supply closet. These two yahoos must have gotten really lucky and tagged Winchester with the needle, dropped him before he could really go medieval on them. Hendricksen wasn't surprised. John Winchester trained his boys well. They were clever, dangerous, and highly trained, the both of them.

Sniegoski wouldn't meet his eyes.

Lockridge wouldn't look at Winchester, and he wouldn't go near the chair.

Dean didn't seem to notice anyone else in the room. His lips moved as he whispered to himself. He didn't react when Dufresne leaned in close to him and listened.

"yishtééł…. halgai… yishááh…"

"What?" Hendricksen raised one eyebrow.

She shrugged. "Sounds like he's chanting."

One of the deputies cleared his throat. He was tall, older than Dufresne, with a broad sunburned face and a white crew cut. He smiled a little when she looked over at him. "Ah, ma'm, I spent some time in the desert Southwest. New Mexico. He's speaking Navajo."

"…deeshááł…"

"Navajo?" Dufresne frowned. "Do you know what he's saying?"

The deputy shrugged. "He's saying he's in a white room. And he's going somewhere."

"Probably some fucked up stuff his dad taught him." Hendricksen shrugged. "Backwoods voodoo, or hoodoo. Whatever. That John Winchester was one weird son of a bitch. You can see crazy didn't fall too far from the tree."

"I told you not to talk about my Dad like that." Dean said slowly, with an edge in his voice. He raised his head and looked Hendricksen right in the eyes.

Hendricksen smiled, but the smile didn't reach his eyes. "That's my boy. Welcome back. So how've you been, Dean?"

Dean blinked in the extremely slow way of the heavily medicated. The green of his irises was a thin ring of color around oversized black pupils. He continued to pull at the restraints. "Agent Scully," Dean mumbled to Hendricksen. He turned his head slowly and looked at Dufresne. "Agent Mulder."

Hendricksen chuckled, shook his head. The kid was drugged up and restrained, sitting in a hostile room -- hell, some of the people there had obviously tried to kick his ass big time -- and he was_ still_ being a smartass.

"What happened, Dean? Where's Sam?" Hendricksen walked around the chair. Glass and black plastic crunched underneath his shoes. "Did you finally snap and murder your own brother? Are we going to find Sam's body in a dumpster or a landfill somewhere, huh?" He leaned forward, his lips at Dean's ear. "Or maybe _he_ ditched _you_. Got tired of your crazy ass and decided to go off on his own. Come on, you can tell me. Inquiring minds wanna know."

Another slow blink, an equally slo-mo nod of the head. Dean looked down at his wrists and frowned. He seemed puzzled the restraints were still there.

"What, no more smartass remarks? None of that trademark witty banter of yours?"

Dean ignored him. He was off on some distant planet somewhere.

"Now you've gone and hurt my feelings. Oh well. You've been remanded into our custody, and we're going on a little trip back to Washington DC. Taxpayer's expense, and all that. You'll have center stage. Once we get there you can continue to play crazy, or you can tell us what's really going on with you and Sam. I personally don't care which. If we caught_ your_ crazy ass, it's only a matter of time before we get Sam."

Hendricksen straightened up. "Doctor Lockridge?"

"Y-Yes?"

"Is the patient ready to go?"

"Yes. The drug combination we gave him should wear off by the time you get him back to Washington."

"Did you conduct an interview with him when he first came into your facility?"

"Yes, but---"

"Then, Doctor, you know the drill. We need your notes from all interviews you've conducted with Winchester. We also need any and all video recordings of said interviews."

"I don't---"

Hendricksen shook his head. "Doc, this isn't my first time at the rodeo, all right? We both know you were planning on writing several papers on Dean Winchester. A freak like this could keep you in business for years to come. Now either you hand over all your material now, or you can plan on spending some quality time with Norwood PD. Obstruction of justice has a very nice ring to it."

It took Lockridge twelve minutes to come up with everything he had.

"All right, Dean," Hendricksen was at Dean's side again. 'This is the way this is gonna go." Dean stared at him dully. "We're going to unstrap you now, cuff you up, put you in a wheelchair and take you out to the car. Now, if you make any sudden moves, if you even twitch, I won't hesitate to bust a cap in your ass. Consider that a warning shot. After that, it's all up to you."

"I'llbeagoodboy," Dean slurred thickly. "…good…boy…"

"We'll see."

The weirdest part about the whole thing was Petrie and Sneigoski's reaction when it was time to unstrap those restraints. "My arm's busted," Petrie muttered. "Can't do it." Sniegoski just stared and didn't move. Somehow Dufresne wasn't that surprised when she turned around and Lockridge was nowhere to be found.

None of the other Norwood orderlies would even come into the room.

Faulk and Baker handed their weapons off to Dufresne and Hendricksen, then unstrapped Winchester and put the cuffs on him.

Five minutes after that Dean Winchester was strapped into the back seat of the first black FBI SUV and Hendricksen slid behind the wheel. Dufresne rode shotgun. Deputies from Norwood took point, and the SUV with Dean, Hendricksen and Dufresne was in the middle, with FBI Agents Faulk and Baker taking up the rear in a black sedan.

Twenty miles out from Norwood, shit happened.

It didn't have anything to do with the supernatural. Not at all.

Shit happens.

It happens all the time.

Eight hours earlier a factory worker by the name of Jerry Englewood was having a really crappy day. His wife had put a restraining order on him, months ago, which was no biggie since Jerry decided to shack up with his long-time girlfriend, Claire. Well, until this morning he had. When Claire found out that Jerry had lost his job at the plant a week ago, she kicked him out of her house, quick fast and in a hurry. Jerry found himself with all his worldly possessions in his suitcase and his heavy duty Ranger truck. He had enough money to go bar hopping, and he went about getting drunk with a total vengeance.

Now, at approximately one o'clock in the morning, Jerry was barreling down the highway twenty miles out from Norwood. He weaved back and forth over the white and yellow lines, and it wasn't long before he approached the cop cruiser and the two FBI vehicles headed in the opposite direction.

Hendricksen had a brief flash of headlights coming over the yellow line right at them, and he twisted the steering wheel to the right, stomped on the gas pedal. He refused to give up control, right up to the bitter end. As a result the Ranger pick-up plowed into the SUV at an angle instead of head on, slamming into the rear passenger side door, right behind Hendricksen. Dean Winchester was strapped in directly between the two agents.

Hendricksen glanced up into the rear view mirror seconds before impact. Dean's head jerked up, and his eyes were backlit, his pupils glowed like an animal staring into a fire. _Reflection of the headlights_, Hendricksen thought, and then everything went blank in a blinding yellow flash….

**Navajo Translations**

deeshááł - I'll go.

yishtééł – I'm carrying it along.

halgai – the area/this place is white.

yishááh – I'm coming.

lnáháláá - I gathered them.

ahbínígo tłóógóó chínáshdááh - I always go outdoors in the morning.

nahółtą́ą́lágo - I hope it doesn't rain.

ashįįh – salt.

aahéhee' - thank you.

**Next up: When You're Going Through Hell…**


	15. Chap 15 When You're Going Through Hell

Disclaimer: Don't own 'em. (Kripke, you lucky bastard!)

A/N: Sorry about the delay, but I had a part-time job that was **_seriously _**cutting into my play time. Damn bills...

Thank you for all your reviews! I do appreciate it! And much love to all you lurkers, too. I know you're out there.

Pop culture references:

"do a Carrie" – refers to "Carrie" – movie about a doomed telekinetic teenage girl on a rampage at the prom, starring Sissy Spacek, John Travolta and Nancy Allen.

"Wait'll they get a load of me." Dean's main man, Jack Nicholson – The Joker, from "Batman."

"Smile, you son of a bitch" - Roy Schneider, "Jaws."

"Cujo" – (movie) rabid Saint Bernard terrorizes a mother and her children

Hendricksen's speech was inspired by Tommy Lee Jones' speech to his search team in "The Fugitive."

There is no such thing as a Sig-Hauser Sidewinder sniper rifle. I made it up.

**Dog Eat Dog**

**Chapter 15 When You're Going Thru Hell**

**One**

Dragged down into the darkness, Bobby refused to scream. He could smell sulfur, and the smell made his breath catch in his throat, and he figured _that_ was a fucking illusion because he didn't have a body, not anymore. He could feel the thing wrapped tight around him, and he struggled, but screaming was just not a fucking option. He'd been around for too long, and had hunted too many of the damn things. This demon was one of the older ones, an old hand at possession, and it went about the business of locking Bobby down inside his own body quickly and efficiently, so in a way they were a perfect match.

Bobby didn't emerge again until he laid eyes on Dean Winchester and Coyote again, and that damn near killed him and the demon both.

**Two **

Bright lights, screaming metal, the taste of beer and tequila in his mouth, notDean voices screaming yelling in his head too fast not words just spikes of raw panic and sharp edged fear but then his voice -- _what the hell --_ the acid taste of terror in his mouth and everything around him blurred, shifted, and he didn't know where he was, all he could think about was Sam, then he felt solid again, the soft springy feel of grass beneath his feet, and Dean opened his eyes and saw…this.

Vashon, Illinois seemed normal at first glance because the lights were still on. Dean recognized the hillside as the one overlooking the same highway he and Sam used coming into Vashon from the east. He was too far away to see any real details, but that faint sulfur smell in the wind was a definite clue that things down there weren't exactly right.

He could see the headlights of cars and trucks in the streets, on sidewalks, on the highway, on the shoulders of the road, like toys scattered on the floor of some kid's room. Noises carried on the faint breeze. Growling. Gunshots, Humans screaming and dogs howling, sounds that would have sounded more natural on the plains of the Serengetti, not the streets of Bumfuck, Illinois.

The moon rode low in that midnight blue and maroon sky, bloated, the color of bleached bone. Dean glanced up at the large green and white road sign overhead out of habit more than anything else. He knew where they were.

Dean leaned against the post and glanced over at Coyote. He sat there cross legged on the grass, his back up against the opposite leg, still dressed in that damned black hoodie. Dean looked down at himself and frowned. They were dressed exactly alike.

Damn, he missed his leather jacket.

The expression on Coyote's face was unreadable as he stared down at the town. He had a faraway look in his eyes, and maybe it was a trick of the moonlight but he looked awfully young somehow, younger than Dean.

Dean cleared his throat and said out loud, "We ought to pool our resources ---"

"I died," Coyote blurted out softly.

"W-what?"

"I…died." Coyote licked his lips nervously. He wouldn't look at Dean. "The first time I went up against so many all at once like this. I died."

Dean stared at him blankly. _I don't fucking believe this._ _He's freaking out. We go in with him like this, we're both gonna die. Sam's gonna die._

If Sam were here, he could give Coyote those puppy dog eyes, smile and say just the right things to put his mind at ease, and Coyote would probably go for it.

But Sam's not here, Dean-o, and that's the whole point, isn't it?

_We don't have time for a damn chick flick moment. _

Coyote didn't react to what Dean was thinking. He stared at the town and flinched slightly as a faint warbling howl and choked off screams carried on the wind.

Dean growled "Fuck it," under his breath, angry and disgusted, just loud enough to be heard. He pushed off from the signpost and started walking down the hill.

'Wait a minute…where are you going?"

"I can do this without you," Dean called back over his shoulder.

"You --- what?"

Dean stopped and turned around. Coyote was on his feet, standing underneath the sign.

Dean shrugged. "Hey, look man, I get it. I do. You were really something back in the day. And that day's long gone." Dean shook his head like he was mentally kicking himself for being such a damn fool for believing the hype about Coyote in the first place. "Never would have offered myself if I'd known you were that damn weak."

He turned back towards town, took one step forward and Coyote faded in right in front of him, in a snap of black and silver static. They stood nose to nose. The air between them crackled with energy that stung Dean's skin, tingled the lining of his nose as he breathed in and out.

Dean didn't step back. He wouldn't. He stood balanced on the balls of his feet, shoulders back. He quirked an amused eyebrow at the scowl that darkened his double's features.

"We gonna have a problem here?" Dean said flatly.

Coyote's growl was low, harsh. "Do I look _weak_ to you?"

_I think I'm gonna regret this. Too late to back out now…_

"Dude," Dean drawled lazily, "Not the time to get in touch with your inner girl, okay? I'm not hugging your tricky ass."

"Fuck you." Coyote's eyes flashed bright as the noonday sun, and the world around Dean disappeared in a brilliant yellow flash…

…_the light was so beautiful it filled him up he'd been headblind before like nothing he'd ever felt before it all rushed in on him, it filled him up, he was ancient as the stars above he was newly reborn, all of him that ever was swallowed up by that light, down near Baton Rouge he'd been hit by a fugly wielding poison darts once, got hit in the back, the shoulder, falling down a rabbit hole into the dark but this was the direct opposite, into the light, his skin was wide open, he was wide open, hearing sight touch soul taste, Cassie's skin sweet like strawberries in his mouth, fell on his hands knees, felt grass between his clawed fingers, ancient brown skinned people standing silently all around him, he went from two legs to four and he didn't care, open, changing, rumble of the earth turning, couldn't see, the light poured out of his eyes, couldn't breathe, he smelled his mother's hair, smooth warm scent of her skin as she wrapped her arms around him in a hug, faint spicy aftershave Dad used to wear and his heart thundered and he breathed lightning and he'd drowned once in a lake up in Canada, would've been last death, last one pays for all, turned over on his back, breath of life forced into his mouth and lungs, Dad pounding on his chest telling him Dean, I need you to breathe in and out for me, come on Ace, you're not dying on me not now breathe for me, but this wasn't cold water burning into his lungs each and every breath but light power energy and he struggled at first didn't want to breathe it out but he did, threw back his head and howled with joy at the night sky as it flowed through his body filled him up, every inch, every cell… _

**Three**

**Interstate 65**

**20 Miles from Norwood State Hospital**

**Norwood, Kansas**

"I'll say it again, Agent Hendricksen." The state trooper removed his uniform hat, and scratched his head as the tow truck backed up to the remains of the black SUV. "You must have some sort of guardian angel or somebody high up looking out for you."

It looked as though God himself had reached down, put one hand on the front bumper, one hand on the rear bumper, and crumpled it like an angry kid in kindergarten mangling a piece of cardboard. All four tires were flat. Broken auto glass was everywhere.

Hendricksen didn't answer. He stood there tired and aching and thoroughly pissed off.

He turned as Dufresne walked up to him. She was pale, and her fingers shook slightly as she ran one hand through her short blonde hair. She nodded, and Hendricksen gathered himself and walked over to the crowd of cops standing near their cars.

"All right. Listen up. It's been about forty five minutes since the crash. I want a search pattern established from this point in a sixty mile radius. We will turn over every rock, blade of grass, we will search every farmhouse, doghouse, outhouse, warehouse in the area. We've got roadblocks set up at checkpoints in either direction, and air support will be overhead shortly. Our fugitives' names are Dean and Sam Winchester. They are clever, highly trained, and extremely dangerous. Teams of three, gentlemen. No one goes it alone, no one tries to be a hero with these two. Go get 'em."

Some distance away the Medivac choppers with the two Norwood deputies lifted off, just as another arrived to take the guy in the Ranger pick-up truck. Hendricksen ducked the prop wash from the rotors as the second chopper landed.

Dufresne, shrugged, flinched slightly as she gingerly massaged the back of her neck with her hand. "Guy in the Ranger truck's name is Gerald Arthur Englewood. You could smell the alcohol when they dragged him out of the cabin of the truck. He's had a run of bad luck in the last two months. Wife left him.." Dufresne gave a sarcastic bark of laughter. "Geez, I wonder why…girlfriend booted him out this morning. Lost his job a week ago."

"Any possible contact with Sam Winchester? Any deposits of large sums of money into Englewood's bank accounts?"

"So far, no. We're still checking. What about Faulk and Baker?"

"What about them?" Hendricksen said shortly.

"Well, I mean, you don't really think that they were in on this?"

Hendricksen sighed. "I don't buy their story, that's all. About how they found us sitting on the shoulder of the road after the crash. We were out of the SUV already. They admitted they didn't pull us out. So who did? Sam? _Dean?_" Hendricksen snorted. "Not likely. Faulk and Baker were the only ones on the scene who weren't injured. That one detail doesn't make sense. They're on administrative leave until we can sort this mess out."

Hendricksen stopped and carefully massaged the space between his eyes with his thumb and forefinger. "Sam's the brainy one to Dean's crazy. Kid was pre-law at Stanford. He knows how to work the system." Hendricksen blinked slowly, carefully, as he pulled his hand away. "And while we're pursuing this train of thought, I think we'll head back to Norwood to check if maybe Winchester wasn't that heavily sedated at all. I like to cover all bases. Maybe Sam Winchester didn't bribe two FBI agents. In that case, I think we might have a winner in those two orderlies. Hell, even the good doctor Lockridge is looking pretty good for this one."

"Ah, agents." One of the state troopers came up with the envelope containing Dean Winchester's med records. Hendricksen stared at what was in the trooper's other hand. It was the cuffs they'd placed around Dean Winchester's wrists back at Norwood. The cuffs were still locked and closed.

…_clever, highly trained, and extremely dangerous…_

Hendricksen shook his head in disgust, swore quietly under his breath. "Son of a bitch…"

_**Four**_

It wasn't afraid to try new things. Azazel considered that to be one of its strengths, and besides, it enjoyed seeing whether or not its ideas would work. There were always plenty of meatsuits in the world, an inexhaustible supply.

It stood there in Billy boy's cooling body, and it watched the pavement crack, and black smoke boiled up, rose into the air. The same scene repeated itself all up and down the street. The demons drifted over to the houses, went in through the walls, and after a few minutes or so the meatsuits came out, all black eyed, in various stages of dress. They were all shapes, all sizes. Only the babies were spared, and the only reason for that was they were too young to walk. Maybe later, if it needed more sacrifices, but for now Azazel was content to just leave them mewling in their cribs.

It liked children. They were…useful.

Some of the meatsuits had been caught sleeping in their beds. Some of them were either coming home from work or getting ready to go.

Down the street Azazel could see a lone Ilimu inside a collie shepherd dog break from cover and make a run at a housewife wearing slippers and a bathrobe. The woman looked normal, and she screamed, turned and ran, and the Ilimu was right on her heels. It must have been one of the young, eager stupid ones, because she led it right into a crowd of the others, and the worm turned rather quickly after that. They crowded around the dog, and each and every one of them suddenly had a length of black chain in their hands, and the chain thrummed with dark energy that crackled and singed their fingers.

The Ilimu yelped, a hollow, unnatural sound, and it backpedaled, trying to escape, but it was too little, too late. The demons ignored its snapping jaws, and it managed to bite off a few fingers before another length of chain went around its muzzle. The dog's skin and flesh burned and sizzled, and the Ilimu inside it stared wide-eyed in panic.

The cracks in the pavement widened. The demon inside a small eight year old human female wearing a Barbie nightshirt grabbed the dog by the tail and slowly dragged it over. The demon pushed the dog into the crevasse, hesitated for a moment, and then jumped in after it.

Azazel's grin got wider.

It stood there and watched as the crowd split up, disappeared into yards, side streets, searched for other Ilimu to bind with chains. This particular clan of demons hated Ilimu with a passion, and it hadn't taken much persuasion on Azazel's part to convince them to participate in this little exercise.

Azazel felt a tug at the hem of Billy's denim jacket, and when it looked down again the demon inside the little girl was back. Her clothes were torn, her face dirty with soot, singed around the edges. Her black eyes reflected the flickering streetlights and Azazel smiled down at her with pleasure, mainly at the sight of what she held in her hands as she offered it up.

It was a collar. A ring of metal dark metal thorns attached to a length of silver chain. Each thorn had inscriptions engraved on it, and it was a masterpiece, a one of a kind work of art, just the thing for Dean Winchester and Coyote to wear.

Two birds with one stone, and it chuckled at the thought.

**Five **

**Vashon, Illinois**

_Gonna run myself crazy trying to figure this shit out_, Dean thought darkly. He hated that that damn fade in from who knows where. His body was ghost-like one second, then solid the next. He breathed a little easier as he felt solid concrete underneath his feet, then he wondered for a moment how the hell he could breathe when he was intangible in the first place.

Cars, trucks and buses were parked every which way all around him. The glare from all those headlights was blinding at first, and Dean raised his hand to shield his eyes.. His eyes adjusted quickly (maybe a little too quickly). Most of the cars and trucks stood with doors wide open as if the occupants had to leave in a hell of a hurry.

It was too damn quiet and a small shiver of anticipation clawed its way up Dean's spine as he strained to hear sounds like traffic noises. He got nothing, and that didn't reassure him at all. Quiet was the calm before the storm, quiet only made a person drop their guard before the shit hit the fan and the fuglies with teeth decided to show their ugly faces. Dean didn't care much for quiet.

He grinned a little when he glanced down at his clothes. No more damned hoodie. He had on his brown leather jacket, a navy blue t shirt, faded jeans and boots. He realized that the way he was dressed was his own self image, not Coyote's, and that meant he had control over _something_, at least. He fingered the amulet around his neck. He rolled his neck and shoulders, flexed his arms. He felt good, damned good, as a matter of fact.

Then he stopped and stared at the building looming in the red night sky in front of him and that good feeling inside him came to a screeching halt.

"Son. Of. A. Bitch."

Wal-Mart.

It was a sprawling 24 hour Wal-Mart superstore.

Dean _hated_ Wal-Mart.

He shuddered as he thought about the summer he worked undercover at that Wal-Mart store right outside Atlanta, Georgia. He was nineteen at the time. He and Dad were hunting a goblin at the store and the damn thing was a gold metal champ at hiding, jumping from employees to shoppers, then back to the employees again. It took weeks to track it down and Dean got a little too bloodthirsty, a little too _enthusiastic_ when he and John finally isolated and wasted the slippery sumbitch.

For a long time afterwards Dean hated the color dark blue with a deep abiding passion, and that summer his dad laughed like hell every time Dean bristled whenever he saw a Wal-Mart sign.

_Hey, look, I'm sorry about the things I said before, all right? It was the only thing I could think of to get your mind on the job. _

Coyote was uncharacteristically quiet.

Damn, this was awkward.

_I don't do chick flick moments. Umh…sorry._

Still no answer.

_I don't have time for this._ Dean indicated the parking lot with a shrug of his shoulders. _Whatever this is. Sam's not here, and we need to get to him. _

Dean was so pissed off he could actually feel his throat close up. He shot a squinting look of pure annoyance at the front of the store, and the brick face of the building cracked in a jagged twelve foot long stitch that sent a cloud of brick dust out into the night air.

_Yeah, that's just super, _Dean thought. _I can't figure out how to get to Sam, but I can do a Carrie on a brick wall._

He looked at the damage slightly wide-eyed for a moment, then smirked. _Huh._ _That was me_, and there was a touch of pride in the thought. Then: _I'm not payin' for that. _

The lights were on in the store but nobody came in or out. Several shopping carts were overturned on their sides. White and blue plastic bags and merchandise spilled out onto the gray concrete.

Dean's attention was drawn to a mini-van that sat in the fire lane right next to the store. Its doors were closed, the windows rolled up and the engine was off. He tilted his head to one side and frowned as he stared at it.

There was something about that mini-van that he just didn't like.

And here he was standing there empty handed, with no guns, and no weapons of any kind.

An intense golden yellow spark flared up in the center of Dean's pupils. He looked down at his right hand, and yellow energy rimmed his fingers. Curious, he raised his hand to his face, He snapped his fingers together and sparks flew. He felt a familiar shape and weight materialize out of thin air at the small of his back, underneath his jacket.

Dean reached back, fingered a smooth ivory grip that fit his hand perfectly.

He had in hand his favorite Colt semi-automatic pistol. It was perfect, down to the smallest detail, the decorative engraving on the barrel, the balance and weight. _Hell, yeah._ This life did have its perks after all.

Energy pulsed and crackled underneath his skin, flowed from his hands into the pistol, and the words of the Rituale Romanum surged like a river in his head…

_Exorcizamus te, omnis immunde spiritus, omnis satanica potestas, omnis incursion… _

Dean popped the clip, checked the rounds. The ammo loads were charged with the ritual; he could see faint yellow sparks ebb and flow around the metal. He slapped the clip back in and stood there for a moment longer.

Dean sensed something. He couldn't see anything, it was just a feeling, and a bad one at that. He snapped the Colt up and fired, placed five shots, one right after the other, through the body panel. The pistol recoiled more powerfully than usual, and the energy of the recoil and release flowed back into Dean's skin. His pupils flickered with a faint yellow glow, a thunderstorm of energy slowly building up behind his eyes.

He waited.

The mini-van filled up with black smoke that screamed before it twisted in on itself and faded.

Back to hell in a handbasket, quick, fast, and in a hurry.

Not bad.

He smirked a little at the thought of how surprised those demons must have felt as the Ritual Romanum tore through them, but killing innocent dogs was jacked up. Dean couldn't see any other way around it.

He cursed as something faint and high-pitched made his eardrums contract and expand. The sound was like a dog whistle; it pierced the edge of his hearing and only pissed him off even more.

He jerked around towards the cars on the lot. A glimmering silver wave of motion flowed outwards from the doors of the cars and trucks. It came towards him slowly, shifting, blurred at the edges, dark shapes at the center, unrecognizable at first, fading in and out every other step.

Dean just stood there.

Different voices, different degrees of panic, fear and terror all jumbled together, fading in and out. Low rumbling sound in the background and Dean identified it as engine noise. He couldn't hear any of that before.

Now it was as though time or reality or whatever was catching up with him. His vision sharpened to crystal clarity and those dark shapes were people, pouring out of those cars, buses and trucks, running, stumbling. High pitched warbling, howling and barking sounds behind them, and Dean could sense the joy and excitement from the things as they crouched and stalked through the night. They were happy. They were on the hunt, on the prowl.

_Wait'll they get a load of me, _Dean thought with a wolfish grin that would have made Jack Nicholson proud. He walked forward, slipped the Colt back into his waistband. He met the wave head on. The air around him thickened, washed out waves of silver, and that yellow glint in his eyes got brighter. He felt a slight pushing sensation against his skin, and the wave swelled over him like water and then he was through.

The crowd surged up against him like breakers crashing on the shores of a beach somewhere. He bulled his way through at first. It was two steps forward, five steps back. He didn't want to hurt any of them, but his temper rose as he pushed them away with his hands.

He got clear of the first wave, and this big burly truck driver barreled right towards him. Dude was about Sam's height, sixty pounds heavier than Dean. From the look on his face Trucker Guy wasn't going to hesitate stomping Dean face first into the ground so he could get to safe haven.

Dean growled, low and dangerous, deep in his throat.

He reached out with his mind and pushed, _hard_. Trucker Guy staggered off to the side. The shove very nearly knocked him flat on his ass but he got the idea. He gave Dean a wide berth as he walked past.

That was the way it went for the next fifty yards or so. The crowd parted easily and Dean pushed them aside as gently as he could. One young woman dressed in jeans and an "X- Files" t-shirt stared at Dean wide-eyed as he walked past. She caught up to him and tried to grab him by the arm. Dean caught the words -- _Dude, you're headed the wrong way_ -- and he couldn't tell whether she actually spoke the words aloud or not. He shook his head and mentally gave his would-be rescuer a gentler stagger-step push towards the building that made her eyes widen in shock.

Dean sprinted to one of the cars, jumped onto the hood, and leaped onto the roof of the bus parked right behind it in one smooth motion. From this advantage point he had a clear view of the rest of the parking lot. The store was at his back. The idea now was to lay down covering fire, give the crowd time enough to get into the building.

And to kill as many of these evil sumbitches as he possibly could.

A fully loaded Sig-Hauser Sidewinder sniper rifle with night vision scope materialized into his hands. He was hunting now, and that was something he understood. He might not know how to leave, but he got _this_. And he liked it. The guns were an extension of the power inside him and Coyote, which accounted for the amped up power of the rounds, and the uncanny accuracy.

Dean knelt, brought the stock up snug against his shoulder. He squinted as he put his eye to the scope, and it adjusted itself automatically as he acquired his first target.

God, the sumbitches were _everywhere_.

Dean fired twice, dropped two German shepherds as they herded four screaming teenagers towards a Saint Bernard hiding in the shadows near an abandoned mini-van. Cujo's eyes widened in shock as the shepherds went down, black smoke pouring out of every opening in their bodies as the demons were pulled out of the dogs' bodies and into the ground, back to hell where they belonged.

The teenagers took off running in the opposite direction. Dean tracked them and fired a round into a Rotweiler that lunged at them under cover of some nearby parked cars. He turned his attention back to Cujo and the Saint Bernard backed up, ducked further back into the shadows.

Normally at that distance it would have been impossible for Dean to see it, even with a normal night vision scope. Dean could see it as clear as day. He saw its brow furrow up, saw those pitch black eyes look up, searching, as it ducked down, belly to the ground. Bottomless black eyes locked onto bright green ones, and Dean smirked. The dog's jaws opened in a silent toothy snarl.

"Smile, you son of a bitch," Dean growled as he cocked his head to one side, closed one eye, and sighted carefully. He fired, sent the round into the darkness doubly charged and blessed, and Cujo's body jumped up into the air from the impact. The hole right between the damn thing's eyes released boiling black smoke. It flowed out of the dog's nostrils, out of the bullet hole. Another one gone.

He saw a man with his pregnant wife, and she looked like she was ready to drop any moment. She tried to move as best she could, her hands placed protectively on her belly, and they were stumbling and the dude had his arms around her and he wouldn't leave her. They were an open book to Dean as soon as he laid eyes on them. He knew their names –Joe and Ruby McCandless. He was a carpenter; she worked in a florist's shop. They'd been married for a year, and the kid was due any day now.

They'd already given the baby a name. Kid's name was Sam.

Sam was the reason they were even out of the house tonight. The kid kicked harder than usual tonight, and Ruby couldn't sleep. A brief ride around the block seemed to comfort the baby and they were headed home when all hell broke loose.

Henry Darrow's dog Moose eased up on them from the rear. The once friendly animal's face was twisted in a manic bloody grin, and its eyes glowed pitch black as it slunk low between cars. Dean hit the dog at an angle, beneath the left ear. The impact knocked it backwards, its head a pushed-in bloody ruin that belched thick black smoke.

The demon tried to twist its way up into the night sky but it was already fading, pulled down shrieking, as Dean turned away and fired, dropping several dogs that cornered a family surrounded in their SUV on the far side of the lot.

Dean knew where to turn, where his targets were, what angle to shoot from, and he lost himself in the feeling, this intense focus that made the blood in his veins sing. Power surged and snapped behind his eyes, made that yellow glint in his eyes smolder and flicker.

Still a few stragglers out there, and they needed time to get into the building. The remaining Ilimu were going to ground, spooked by the gunshots. They hid underneath cars. Some of them even backed away, ready to bolt. Dean needed to draw them in.

He unsealed himself, just a little bit, let his light shine out into the blood red dark.

_I hear you sumbitches have been lookin' for me. Well, here I am._

In his mind Dean could hear Sam loud and clear, amused and oh so dorky: Hey, man, you just broadcasted your aura.

Aura, Sammy? My aura? Dean snarked inside his head. Dude, that just sounds_ way _too girly

All over the parking lot every last Ilimu stopped dead in their tracks. They ignored the humans as they staggered past them, even inches away. Heads raised up, snapped around, jaws dropped open, dripped with yellow slobber. A collective growl of anticipation filled the red night air. The dead air shrieked like radio static, scratchy, already well on its way to building up into a full fledged screaming white-out.

Behind him he could see people running for the store. Some of them tripped and fell but they scrambled to their feet and kept on going. Dean didn't have to turn his head; it was that same 360° line of sight he'd experienced before, underneath that tree, when he nearly died from that drug overdose at Norwood.

Joe, Ruby, and Sam were about ten feet away from the store entrance. Images of Anasazi protective runes flashed inside Dean's head, and at the same time Joe heard this odd scratchy sound coming from behind them, and he startled, hustled Ruby forward. Dean could tell that Joe was preparing to shove Ruby forward the last few feet inside the store, more than willing to put himself between whatever this was and his wife and child.

_Please God, just a few more feet, _Joe prayed._ Let them get inside. I don't care what happens to me ---_

Later on Joe told his wife that God spoke to him, inside his head, and God sounded young and cocky, a deep smooth voice with a dry sense of humor. _Not tonight, dude. Nobody else dies. Not while I'm around. Hold onto your wife and kid and keep going._

So Joe did.

He felt a gentle push from behind. Simple curiosity in the midst of all this made him glance around behind them, and his eyes widened as he saw these symbols scratched into the concrete by something he couldn't see, scratched into the concrete and the hard packed dirt and grass as easily as child might use their finger writing the alphabet in soft beach sand. The line of symbols went all the way around the building in a complete circle, in the grass, past the loading docks in the back.

Air pressure above and behind Dean's head shifted as something fast and heavy dropped through the air right on top of him. Dean lunged forward and dived off the side of the bus. Something whipped into the air space where his head and shoulders had been. He smelled the high stink of sulfur and the low stench of shit, heard a disgusted heavy grunt as the thing realized it had missed.

Fingers dug painfully into his ankle and it was like deja fuckin' vu all over again. He jerked to a halt upside down in mid-air so violently his jaws snapped together. That pain was minor compared to the larger pain he felt as he face-planted hard into the side of the bus. The Sidewinder slipped out of his grip and everything went painfully white…

He hung upside down, his arms hanging limply over his head. Whatever had ahold of him turned him over on his back in mid-air with a skillful twist of its wrist. It casually grabbed him by the ankle again and it grunted as it hauled him back up onto the bus.

Dean came to seconds later. Pain, panic and finally anger cut through the haze, made him lash out. Several dark shapes crouched on the roof right behind him. He still couldn't see straight and but something dark sat hunched over right next to him and he kicked out with his free leg. The sole of his boot connected solidly and the fugly squealed and hooted as it jumped back out of reach.

Dean's eyes blazed yellow, and his back arched slightly as the Colt filled his hand again. He stretched out his arm, aimed, pulled the trigger at the dark figures crouched above him. The thing holding his ankle growled, let go, and jerked backwards as the rounds burned through the air all around it.

It wasn't the most graceful or dignified of landings. Dean dropped awkwardly to the ground. He tucked his shoulders and rolled, away from the bus. He came up in a half crouch, his back jammed up against the side of a nearby truck. He snapped the pistol up in a two handed grip towards the roof of the bus.

All around him there was the faint snick of claws against concrete, and that damn sulfur smell, faint at first, then stronger as the others drew near. He pulled his left hand away, filled it with a Taurus 9mm pistol. He pointed it at the dogs coming at him from the left and they froze. Bastards must have been pretty sure of themselves, though, because they didn't hide.

The others stopped. They waited.

Dean's eyes widened slightly as he locked eyes with the thing on top of the metro bus.

He'd expected dogs. The damn place was lousy with them. This was no damn dog.

It leaned over the edge of the bus and bared its teeth at him. Long yellow incisors, red eyes, grey hair.

It was a chimp. A fucking demon possessed chimp.

Six more heads popped up, leaned over the edge of the bus, stared at him with pitch black eyes that flared orange like burning embers.

Okay, scratch that. _Chimps_. Plural.

"Holy shit," Dean whispered.

_**Five**_

Sam prowled the house from the basement to the attic. The walls and ceilings were covered with those sigils. They were spray-painted on the walls, and some of them had been drawn using permanent markers. Some of the sigils resembled the devils trap from the Key of Solomon, except that instead of the scorpion in the centerpiece there were these peculiar looking symbols Sam didn't recognize, even with his extensive background.

He seemed to have pissed Maureen off by telling her that he wanted to be left alone. She sat on the couch in the living room, her legs tucked up underneath her, covered with a thin yellow blanket, and she very pointedly ignored him when he walked by.

Sam didn't see Billy boy anywhere, and that was kind of a relief, but not really, considering what Travis had said about Billy going into the dark. Travis was somewhere around behind closed doors, and Sam finally got a quick look at the twins. They were a boy and a girl, couldn't have been any older than seventeen, eighteen tops. Red hair, wide green eyes. They ducked back when he walked by, and they shadowed him as he walked through the house.

So Maureen, Travis and Sam were the only '83 "babies" in the house. And that didn't exactly reassure Sam, either. It nagged at him, and he didn't know why.

Windows boarded up. Salt lines at all the windows and doors.

Well, why not salt?

_I've told you before, Sam. Do you really think something like that works on something like me?_

After an hour or so he made his way back to the kitchen, and he stood there idly pulling open the kitchen cabinets. It was rude, and intrusive, and right now Sam didn't give a damn. The cabinets were filled with canned goods, cases of bottled water sat in one corner, and the fridge was packed with food. Sam's stomach growled in answer, reminded him that he hadn't eaten in over a day or so.

The hell with it. He thought better on a full stomach. He looked up in the cupboard and snagged a can of chili. He pulled a can opener from one of the bottom drawers, a bowl from one of the overhead cabinets. Into the microwave, and minutes later Sam's stomach had stopped growling and was actually purring. He had a bad moment when he thought that maybe the bastard had put something in the chili, it tasted just that good, but hell, he was just being paranoid. Drugging the food didn't make any sense.

He didn't react when he heard the floor creak behind him.

"Couldn't sleep," Travis said miserably as he slouched past. He went over to the kitchen sink, pulled out a glass from the overhead cabinet and filled the glass with water from the tap. "Old house. Floors and walls settle sometimes. You got a big brother?"

"Yeah. His name's Dean."

"I had a brother and a sister. Tried to kill me about a year ago, when my power came out." Travis drank the water slowly, stared at Sam through the clear glass. He obviously wanted to see how Sam would react to _that_ bit of news.

Sam shook his head. "Dean's not like that. When he found out the things I could do, he stayed with me. He protected me."

"He did?" Travis slid into the chair opposite Sam. "Your Dean…_he's _normal, right?"

_Didn't look so normal the last time I saw him, but…_ "Yeah."

"So what do _you _do?"

Sam shrugged. "Death visions. Sometimes I can move things with my mind. Sometimes. You?"

Travis wordlessly put his hand flat down on the table, and as Sam watched Travis' hand became transparent and ghosted into the worn fake wood surface without much effort. Travis watched Sam carefully, searching for any sign that Sam was freaked out or repulsed by it. He visibly relaxed when Sam actually leaned forward, interested. Travis pulled his hand out a few seconds later.

Sam cleared his throat. "Your family….ah, did your mother die in a fire?"

Travis frowned. "Fire? Naw. Mom died of a stroke about a year ago. After the funeral and the fight with my brother and sister my old man told me to leave and never come back. I never ignore good advice."

"So the yellow eyed man's been watching over you all this time?"

"Yeah. He's got human friends with connections." Travis shrugged. "Got me a job working on cars in one of their garages."

"Huh."

"So, Sammy," Travis' voice deepened, and his eyes gleamed yellow. "Let's talk about _your_ future, shall we? Your future after all this unpleasantness is over, I mean."

Sam froze. _Oh God, no…_

Travis leaned forward, and the smile on his face was wide and easy. Sam thought he'd never seen Travis smile before, and the sad thing about it was Travis had to be possessed by a fucking demon to smile happily in the first place. "Now, you may as well know that your brother Dean is back in town, and he's brought his little lap dog Coyote with him."

Sam frowned. "Dean? Lap dog? What the hell are you talking about?"

"Your brother's ensouled with the Trickster Coyote. Has been his entire life, from birth."

Travis' eyes widened in mock surprise at Sam's confused expression. "What? He didn't tell you? Shame. And you had to hear it from me. Dean's been keeping secrets from you, Sammy boy. That's not very brotherly of him, is it? Didn't you wonder why he admired that Trickster you hunted about a month ago? Dean said the damned thing had style, remember? Have you ever heard your big brother admire a fugly before, in all the years you've known him? Didn't think so. He hunts 'em so well because he's no different from the things he hunts." Travis cocked his head to one side. "That's a tad hypocritical, don't you think?"

Sam sat there frowning, confused. He shook his head. "You're lying. I get it. It's what you do."

Travis nodded. "Well, you're right about that part, but," he pouted as though his feelings were hurt, "We tell the truth sometimes, too. Tell you what, when Dean gets here, ask him about Coyote. See if he'll tell you the truth about his little friend."

"I don't believe you," Sam said stiffly.

Travis shrugged. "Suit yourself. Oh, by the way, it's a shame about Madison, Sammy. It tugged at my heartstrings when I heard about her, but don't worry. Murdered souls go to heaven, you know. I don't make the rules. I just follow them." It shrugged. "Sometimes. She's up there with your Mom, and Jess. Madison died because of you. Come to think of it, all three of them died because of you. Huh. Never thought about that before. You're two up on Dean, you know that? He's only got John on his talley sheet, you've got three…"

"Shut up," Sam's voice was low, dangerous.

"I imagine that's the only thing you're ahead of Dean in --- "

"I said shut up---" The dishes in the sink began to shake and rattle. Shards of china broke off, rattled against the stainless steel in a teeth rattling clatter.

"I mean, him being your big brother and all," Travis rambled on. "We could say that he was the cause of Jess dying, he came and got you from Stanford, but you dreamed about pretty little Jess dying days before it actually happened, so that's not exactly true, is it—"

"SHUT THE HELL UP!" Sam roared, and a butcher knife came flying out of the sink, whickering through the air end on end. The tip of the blade caught Travis on the top of his left shoulder, and the Demon inside Travis laughed as blood ran down his t shirt and the knife embedded itself in the far wall.

"That's my boy!" The Demon crowed delightedly, in a perfect imitation of Dean's voice.

Sam blinked slowly, stared at the blood. "N-no, I didn't mean to ---" he stammered.

"Yes, you did, Sammy. You did." It used Travis' voice now. "And you didn't care whether you injured an innocent or not. _That's_ what I'm talking about!" It slammed Travis' fist down on the table with glee.

Sam sat there in stunned silence.

It leaned forward. "Tell you what. I'll do you a solid. I'll make sure Travis here doesn't remember a thing. But, you'll remember, won't you, Sammy? _You'll_ remember."

It pushed off from the table and stood up. "I'll get Travis cleaned up, and then we can get ready for Deano when he comes by. Man, it'll be like old times. All we need is for Papa John to show up, and then all three of you fucked up Winchester men can have a proper family reunion. It'll be like old home week." It chuckled as it walked Travis out of the room.

Sam felt freezing cold. His pulse throbbed dully at his temples, and his stomach felt like it was boiling over, twisted into tight, greasy knots.

He could be pushed into violence. Just that easily.

The dark wasn't that far from the surface after all.

He didn't react when he heard a tired sigh from behind. Maureen padded over, still wrapped in that thin yellow blanket. "Kinda messes with that high and mighty view you Winchesters have of yourselves, doesn't it?" She sat down in the opposite chair, and her skin was pale, dark circles underneath her eyes. "Now I think you know which side you belong on, Sam. Your family doesn't matter anymore. Your brother Dean doesn't matter anymore. So you hurt Travis." She shrugged, like nothing of it mattered. "I wouldn't let that bother you. The yellow eyed man uses us like that sometimes. It's a small price to pay."


	16. Chapter 16 Thunderstruck

I apologize for the delay in updating. Real life sucks sometimes. That's my story and I'm stickin' to it.

Didn't want to delay posting this one, since I made some promises to certain folks who fussed at me (and rightfully so, I might add) about the delay. Will post another chapter Wednesday. It's more than half done, but it needs a little more polish to it.

Disclaimer: Don't own 'em. Darn it.

A/N: Italics mean thought-speech. Italics also indicate flashbacks. Also, Dean's a little pissed off (hah!) in this one, so he cusses. A lot.

A/N the second: According to Wikipedia, Kachina are "supernatural entities or spirits capable of influencing the natural world."

Spoilers: Faith, Pilot, Home, In My Time of Dying

_**Dog Eat Dog**_

_**Chapter 16 Thunderstruck**_

_**One**_

_I hear you sumbitches have been lookin' for me. Well, here I am._

Across town at the Roadway Inn notDean and the thing wearing Bobby Singer's skin turned, looked at each other, and grinned. They pulled a shotgun out of Bobby's duffel bag, loaded the shells and made themselves ready.

On the way back out to the truck notBobby walked by Bobby Singer's dog Condie lying sprawled and bloody on the floor inside the motel room. It could have sworn that her chest was still rising and falling, so it kicked her in the head just to make sure.

Fucking mutt.

In the safe house Azazel cocked its head to one side and listened to Dean's echo. The eldest had changed, no doubt about it. It detected a little less humanity, a lot more..otherworldliness. Power. The more Dean used it, the better he liked it, and the Demon chuckled at the thought of Dean's humanity slip-sliding away all because of his love for his brother.

And none of that would do either brother or that mangy mutt Coyote any damn good.

It stripped Travis' shirt off and stared at the boy's gashed and bloody shoulder in the bathroom mirror. _I could really start some shit with this_, it thought. The wound was deep, but it looked far worse than it really was. The guilty look on Samuel's face was priceless, well worth all the trouble it'd taken to protect the boy.

Its yellow eyes gleamed brighter as it stood there, thinking. Yeah, it had promised Sam that Travis wouldn't remember a thing, but where the hell was the fun in _that_?

Besides, _evil_, remember? Sam wasn't stupid. He had to know that Azazel was lying its ass off. When Dean showed up, it would be so much fun watching the eldest kill Travis, after Travis tried to kill Sam.

_Well, may as well stir the pot up a little,_ it thought gleefully, and it reached out with its mind towards Dean and Coyote.

_**Two**_

One of the smaller chimps leaned over the side of the bus. Its eyes burned orange as it gestured and chattered and hooted, and Dean was pretty sure he was being called everything but a child of God.

Dean winked at it, moved the Colt over slightly so the gun barrel was sighted directly at the little bastard. The yellow glow in Dean's eyes flared up like the promise of sunrise at dawn, and the chimp jerked back as though he'd shot at it.

Dean smirked, then scowled as sulfur scorched the air around his left ear.

_Oh, this is a warm and fuzzy moment if I ever saw one. So nice to see you boys getting along so well. Need to take a picture of this for my scrapbook. _

"Son of a bitch – "

The chimps leaned over the side of the bus, and looked on with wide-eyed interest. Looked like the trickster hunter was cracking under the pressure. Bastard was talking to himself. If he started screaming then they'd have some live entertainment before dinner.

_I won't live like the things I hunt, _Azazel drawled, perfectly imitating Dean's voice._ How's__** that**__ workin' out for ya, Deanie old boy?_

"I'm kicking _your_ ass next," Dean growled flatly.

_I'm a-fra-id, _it said mockingly, stretching the syllables out._ I see ya got your hands full right now, boy. _

"Oh, don't fret, sweetheart." Dean's grin was bright and feral. "There's plenty of me to go around. I'll get to you in a moment."

_Speaking of which...you __**do**__ know where Sam is, right? 'Cause, uhm, little brother's still waiting for you to show up. _Its voice dripped with mock concern and outrage – _how could you treat Sam like that?_ -- _and you sure are taking your own sweet time getting over here. What's the matter, Dean? You afraid that Sam will take one look at you and realize exactly __**what**__ you are now? What you've been hiding all along?_

"Shut the hell_ up_, you yellow eyed bastard."

_Now, see, that's something we're going to have to work on. That mouth of yours. All that hostility and pain. The fact that your own flesh and blood will ditch you in a heartbeat, and that's always been the way with you, hasn't it? You give all you have and then some, and it's never enough. And they never stop taking. _

_They don't need you the way you need them, _it whispered, and that was_ it_, Dean couldn't tell whether that was Coyote growling or _he_ was making that sound, deep in his throat, but they'd both had more than enough. He and Coyote both just wanted the fucking Demon to shut the hell up, wanted to get that low rumble of a voice that sounded so much like John Winchester's out of their ears.

Dean saw the image of a bare-chested young boy, younger than Sam, slashed and bloody, standing in front of a bathroom mirror. The boy's eyes gleamed a poisoned murky yellow, and he seemed to know Dean could see him. That infernal wide grin pasted on his face got even wider. Yeah, the kid was possessed, but he was in that house so he belonged to the damned thing. As far as Dean was concerned he sure in the hell wasn't innocent.

Dean lashed out at the kid with his mind. Bouncing him off the walls like a tennis ball did have a certain appeal, but Dean pulled back at the last moment and punched him in the nose instead. The kid's head rocked back and when he righted himself again he put one hand up to his bloody nose and the Demon used the kid's own mouth to laugh at the blood on his fingers.

The Demon let Travis out just then, let him see Dean's face. Let Travis hear what it said next.

_Well, Sammy cut one of my other special kids with a knife. _Travis stared down at his shoulder wide-eyed._ You know, boys will be. Boys, that is. Why can't my people all just get along? Just thought you'd like to know, Dean. We both have Sammy's best interests at heart._

"You're dead, you're fuckin' dead, you hear me –"

And it chuckled as it cut the connection.

_Hell yeah, Dean, they were right. You're__** so**__ much fun to play with._

The Demon allowed Travis back out all the way, then, and the kid's knees went out from under him. He sat down on the floor shakily, his back against the side of the tub. Travis cradled his injured shoulder, wiped the blood from his nose with the back of his other hand. He tried not to cry, but damn, his shoulder hurt, and so did his nose, and he was fighting a losing battle against the tears he didn't want to let out.

_It's okay. It's all right. _Travis felt unseen fingers caress his uninjured shoulder, and for some reason that seemed to comfort him. _I tried to stop him from hurting you, but those damn brothers are so tricky, especially that older one. And Sam, well, I just don't know what got into him. He seemed so nice, before, but you never really know people, do you? You're going to help me, right, Travis? When Dean gets here? You're going to help me stop him and Sam from hurting you ever again?_

Travis nodded, his eyes dull with pain.

_Good boy._

_**Three**_

Sam sat at the kitchen table with his head in his hands. The space behind his eyes ached and throbbed. Not moving was good. Sitting there with his eyes closed was even better.

_Sam?_

Sam flinched. The bastard was back, imitating Dean's voice.

_Leave me the fuck alone._

_Sammy? What the hell, dude?_

Sam caught the note of genuine concern and confusion in the voice, and he opened his eyes. The light stabbed into his brain and he dropped his eyelids back down halfway.

_Dean, that better be you and not that yellow eyed son-of-a-bitch._

_And I love you too, Gilligan. You okay? Are you hurt?_

_Yeah. No. _Sam frowned as he gingerly pinched that sore spot between his eyes with his thumb and forefinger. _I just ---yeah. M'fine. _

_Damn, it's good to hear your voice. _

_Where the hell are__** you**?_

_I'm, ah – hanging out at Wal-Mart with King Kong and his homedogs. _

_Uh, you mean homies, don't you? _Sam frowned._ Wal-Mart?_

_No, Sammy, I mean homedogs. _Dean smirked._ Lassie and her rabid cousins showed up too and I think I pissed 'em off when I shot a few of 'em. _He moved the Taurus 9 mil slightly, and the dogs directly in the line of fire hunkered down and froze in place. The smarter ones pulled back, hid behind the ones in front._ If Timmy falls down that well tonight he's shit out of luck, dude. _

_Don't see Naomi Watts anywhere, though. _One of the chimps howled loudly, and it yelped as the big grey one backhanded it across the face. _Just my luck. The one time I run into something like this and the hot chick doesn't show. _

The big grey bastard leaned over the side of the bus, intently staring at Dean's face. It was trying to eavesdrop inside Dean's skull, but Dean's body was sealed shut, for now.

Sam frowned._ Dean? What the hell was **that**?_

_Monkey, Dean said simply._

_A – a monkey?_

_Well, a chimp, to be precise, Sammy. One of the demon possessed variety._

_A chimp._

_Yep._

_Dude, _Sam couldn't help but laugh._ You do realize that we're talking to each other inside our own heads? We're using telepathy?_

_No shit, Sherlock. _

_Damn._

_Yeah, Sam. Damn. Look, I'm coming for you, okay? Watch your back. That yellow-eyed bastard's in that house, yeah?_

_Yeah. Been looking for a way to get out ---_

_Don't, Sam. It's hell's version of Wild Kingdom out here. Stay there. I still can't believe I'm telling you to__** do**__ that, but I am. __**It**__ wants to control you. These things out here want to __**eat**__ you. Alive and screaming. I'm coming. Stay put._

Several of the Ilimu dogs crept up a little closer on the side, and they froze, grinning wildly, as Dean leveled the Taurus 9 mil at them. They were becoming bolder with each passing minute. In these close quarters, maybe they thought he couldn't kill them all with the guns, get them before he was pulled down.

Maybe they were right.

_Sam, I gotta go._

_Dean—_

Dean shut down the connection with a snap.

He definitely _did not_ want Sam to see this.

_Any_ of it.

_Only one way to do this. One way to get 'em all,_ Coyote murmured softly.

A shadow passed over and through Dean's eyes, and the yellow glow in his pupils guttered like a flame in a high wind.

_It was dark down in that basement. Slamming into the wall knocked the breath out of him, and then the fugly charged right at him, clawed hands outstretched, and Dean backpedaled._ _Water sloshed around his ankles and his wrists as he scrambled searching for the taser, and when he found it the fucker was practically on top of him, slobbering with anticipation. Dean turned over, gripping the taser with both hands, and fired._

_Direct hit. The barbs sunk into the bastard's chest, and its back arched, its mouth gaped open in a roar of pain and outrage as 10,000 volts surged down the wires. _

_The electrical charge shimmered down the thing's legs, into the water. Dean could see it, but he couldn't move fast enough. He couldn't move at all. His heart clenched so painfully his head rocked back as the world went white hot with pain. _

The big grey chimp leaned forward and stared intently.

Dean stared hard right back at it.

_Insolent meat_, the Ilimu thought at him.

_Fuck you, _Dean snarled. A thin trickle of blood ran down from his nose.

His aim with the Colt wavered.

Dean put his shoulders up against the side of the truck. He stood up, pushing up against it. It took an effort. His knees shook, and his face twisted in pain as he lowered the Colt. Dean's breathing quickened, and when he glanced back up at the big grey there was actually fear in those wide green eyes.

The grey chimp raised one eyebrow.

The yellow glow in Dean's pupils was almost gone.

_His nostrils flared with the antiseptic smell in the hospital. The sound of that damn heart monitor as it beeped. His once strong heart was now sending out a series of irregular beats, and every one that made it out now was closer to the final one. _

None of the Ilimu moved.

"_What can I say, Sammy, it's a tough gig, and I drew the short straw." That look. That damn stricken look on Sammy's face. Dean couldn't look at him. He stared up at the ceiling instead, wondered how many other people had lain in this exact same room, in this exact same bed, feeling weak, knowing they didn't have long on this earth. He shrugged, tried to sound light, unconcerned, and yeah, he could tell by the anguished look on Sammy's face that little brother just wasn't buying it. "Guess you're gonna have to leave town without me," Dean mumbled softly._

_And Sam hadn't._

Under the red dark sky over Vashon Illinois Dean's skin paled. The skin underneath his eyes was dark and bruised. He tried to raise the Colt up again, and his arm trembled. His arm fell back to his side, and his fingers twitched open.

The Colt vanished into thin air.

Dean staggered. He leaned heavily against the side of the truck. He was able to steady his left hand and arm holding the Taurus, but when he raised his empty right hand to wipe the blood away from his nose his fingers shook.

"…no…not…not now…please…"

He stared numbly at his bloody fingers as though he expected the Colt to fill his hand again, and it didn't come back.

The shields he'd put around his body and mind began to collapse.

The big grey chimp listened. Waited. The dogs froze and some of them alertly tilted their heads to one side.

Dean's heartbeat fluttered, slowed, then did it again.

His blood pumped sluggishly through his veins.

He locked eyes with the big grey, and a shudder ran through Dean's body as the Ilimu demon reached inside his mind. The Taurus 9 mil vanished like the Colt did, and Dean's arm dropped limply down to his side.

…_no…damn it…_

…_boy…_

…_get out of my head…get out…_

…_poor…little…boy…_

It grinned at Dean. It could see Coyote inside Dean now, and_ that_ critter wasn't looking so good either. Coyote struggled back up onto his haunches as the Ilimu knuckle walked towards him in Dean's mind's eye, and the growl that rumbled up from Coyote was half-hearted --_ stay the hell away from me --_ purely for show, and they both knew it.

Dean's heart fluttered again, and the Ilimu grinned at the sound. It echoed inside Dean, and he closed his eyes and groaned as he clutched at his heart with his left hand.

…_poor little dog, _the Ilimu crooned_…fractured godling...broke your own heart…too much power for the flesh…what a shame…_

"…kill...you…" Dean gasped out loud, and the damn thing laughed in his face.

…_weak…you're both weak…weak flesh…but good to eat…fine…tender…_

Excited gibbering and chattering over his head. The damn chimps jumped up and down on the bus so hard the metal roof began to buckle.

And the dogs moved forward.

_**Four**_

Across the street the white haired Ilimu elder male hung back, even though the others were milling around him, restless. notDean had ditched him as soon as he could, and the damned fool was back at the Roadway Inn, with that other Ilimu wearing that older hunter's body.

There were chimps, dogs, possessed humans in the mix. They were lower ranking than the ones that had already crossed over to the parking lot. They'd have to wait their turn, take whatever scraps were left, if anything was left over by that mob.

Being slow, bringing up the rear, for whatever reason, would teach them to hustle faster, prepare them for the next hunt.

The white haired one could've easily pulled rank, but he didn't.

He was afraid, and they sensed it. The smell of his fear made several of the dogs snap and bite at the fingers of the body he occupied. Some of the other possessed humans stood there staring at him blackly, looks of contempt on their faces.

One of them wore a convenience store clerk smock and his nametag said AJ. Another one was dressed in tight, short yellow clothes and wore a red wig. She was a prostitute, the kind the old one had routinely hunted down and slaughtered overseas, in London, Berlin, Nigeria, and other places.

She smiled at him, flirting, as if the body still remembered that trick, but the effect was ruined when she stuck her finger into her mouth and bit thru the flesh and bone of the first joint, right down to the bone. She chewed noisily, batted her eyelashes coquettishly at him, and her eyes were pitch black.

Another Ilimu sat a few hundred yards away, inside a marked cruiser, wearing the meatsuits of a uniformed K9 cop and his dog. He sat in his car, apart from the others. That one could've just as easily beaten the others over to the parking lot, but he didn't, and the old one didn't know why.

The white haired one wondered why they couldn't see it. They were so obsessed with the hunt, they kept their heads down, focused on that green eyed freak of a hunter and that trickster inside him, and they never even bothered to look up.

_**Five**_

He promised himself he wouldn't scream. Wouldn't give them the satisfaction of hearing him beg. Wouldn't do any good anyway.

Dean growled. Coyote growled. A sheen of yellow passed over Dean's eyes, turned the blood red world golden yellow for one brief second, then even that blinked out, and Dean's eyes were a tired, washed out hazel brown color.

The air vibrated with this strange thrumming sound. Dean was on his knees by then. He could barely keep his head up, and behind him he heard several heavy thumps as several of the chimps hit the ground. The stench of sulfur and shit washed over him like a wave, and he couldn't move.

Something threaded thick fingers through his short blond hair and yanked his head back and up, and all he could do was just kneel there.

He radiated weakness. Couldn't stop it. Couldn't hide it.

"…bastard…" Dean breathed hoarsely. He and the big grey chimp were practically nose to nose.

It smirked at him, put one dark stubby finger to Dean's lips.

…_ssshhh…_

He never even saw its other hand move, but he felt it, alright. Stars exploded behind Dean's eyes. His head jerked over to the side, and he very nearly face-planted into the pavement. It grabbed him by the front of his leather jacket, and pulled him upright again.

It hit him again, from the other side this time.

Through the gathering grayness and the haze Dean remembered what they'd done to their victims back in McCoy, Indiana.

Damn things liked to play with their food.

The dogs were right _there_, black eyes all around him, jammed in shoulder to shoulder, and more were coming, anxious, not wanting to miss out getting a piece of this damn fool they'd been hunting for the past couple of days.

Dean's eyes rolled up white, and his head lolled back. His arms hung limply at his sides and the big grey frowned as he shook him. Tormenting an unconscious human didn't have quite the same appeal. It wanted Dean awake for this. Wanted him conscious, wanted to hear him scream.

It growled as it shook him again. Dean's head fell forward, and it smirked as it put one paw underneath his jaw, pulled his head back. Dean opened his eyes and looked up at it.

The big grey frowned. Something different was reflected in Dean's eyes, something it hadn't seen before. It leaned closer, stared, then jerked back.

Then it looked up at the sky.

Red and black clouds boiled silently in the maroon darkness directly overhead.

It bared its teeth as it looked down at Dean, and Dean smiled up at it, his eyes blazing yellow.

_Gotcha._

Coyote whispered inside Dean's head, rough-edged and raspy.

…_wuya kwaina wushahai. Ekele husen mdawi kachina shinaabe akbaal tsitot söhöna medeo _wuhti…

_I call upon the kachina of the earth, air and sky to defend and heal your wayward sons in their hour of need…_

Thunder rolled overhead, boomed in response to his words. White static scratched across black eyes like a thin film of dried white glue. The clouds split open, went blinding white and the lightning strike came down right on top of them with a roar of thunder like the voice of God.

The strike hit Dean right on the top of his head, flowed through him all the way into the ground. The lightning arced from his body into the Ilimu all around. They were frozen in place. Couldn't move, couldn't run. Even the ones that hid behind the others, hid behind cars and trucks some distance away were caught. The chimps still on top of the roof of the bus were stuck to the metal.

Yellow flame caressed Dean's skin like a lover's kiss, rolled gently up and over the folds of his clothing, gently carded his hair. He was covered with it, from head to toe. He couldn't remember standing up again, but he was on his feet, so he must have. He looked down at himself – _Just like Mom_, he thought dully -- but he couldn't feel himself burning and he felt something very much like relief as he pushed the images of his mother burning on the ceiling, and then burning brightly like a candle as she faced down that poltergeist, pushed both images away, deep into his mind.

Dean's head moved back as he slowly raised his arms out to his sides, palms up. His gaze grew distant. Animal heartbeats echoed inside his head, quick, fearful, panicky, and he calmed them, then slowed and stopped each and every one in mid-beat. He felt slight tension around his fingers as he pushed his way beneath their limp skins, and he filled his hands with screaming black smoke that writhed and twisted between his fingers.

The Ilimu were caught, terrified.

_Now you bastards know how it feels,_ Dean thought darkly.

He tightened his grip, and pulled.

Dean stood in the midst of a whirlwind of bright white light and superheated air that erased fur and flesh, melted rubber and deformed metal. The demons were pulled shrieking out of the dogs, out of the chimps, black smoke that shrieked and faded as that bright light unraveled them like rotten cloth. They were erased. Gone. Wouldn't have to worry about _this_ bunch clawing their way out of hell, back into the sunlight.

The flames covering Dean's body, lengthened, twisted gracefully into the sky overhead, and then vanished.

His vision cleared and Dean found himself standing in the middle of a crater three feet deep in the parking lot. The blacktop had an odd metallic green shimmer just underneath the surface. The trucks and cars nearby were reduced to oddly graceful curves of melted metal, like the pedals of a water lily just opening up to daylight.

The night air smelled clean. Purified somehow. No sulfur smell. No smell of burning flesh, or twisted overheated metal. The airspace directly over the Wal-Mart store looked more like normal night sky.

Dean felt like howling at the bone bright moon overhead, and a small smile tugged at his lips as he realized that inside him, Coyote was doing just _that._

Coyote stood with his head thrown back, and he was rejoicing. Together they'd just smoked an entire horde of demon sumbitches. The animals caught up in this nightmare had been laid to rest. Dean felt a sound, joyful, and resonant, rise up out of his own throat, and the hell with it, it felt natural. It felt_ right_.

Dean felt more fully alive than he had been since he and Sam had gone hunting together, after Jess' death, since Dad died.

That yellow glow in Dean's pupils flared up brightly as Dean tilted his head back and sang right along with Coyote. He filled his lungs with air and howled for the pure joy of it, and the sound that came out of his throat and chest was deeper and fuller than it had a right to be.

_I did this. I claim this._

It was a bass sound, full-throated, powerful, otherworldly, and a part of him recognized _that_, recognized the fact that right at this very moment he looked and sounded just like one of the fuglies he and John and Sam used to hunt.


	17. Chapter 17 No Good Deed Goes Unpunished

Disclaimer: As always, don't own 'em. Kripke, you lucky SOB. Thanks for letting me play with 'em, though. I always did appreciate the fact that you're not interested in unleashing Wolfram and Hart on the fandom fic writers.

Spoilers: Faith, Croatoan

**Translations: **

Mą'ii Roamer (or Coyote - Navajo)

Cere – the sisters' affectionate nickname for Coyote. Means absolutely nothing. I know. I made it up.

**A/N:** Italics indicates thoughts and dream sequences.

I'm posting another chapter Wednesday. Thought about posting them as one long chapter, but hey, I realize that some of you are at work when you're reading this, and I know how it is dodging your evil employer _**and**_ the office snitch(es). I feel your pain, dudes and dudettes.

I really do appreciate all the kind reviews and the private emails. You like this story enough to nag me about updates!

Sniff Sniff Snort

Makes me feel all warm and fuzzy inside.

That said, let the mayhem continue!

**Dog Eat Dog **

**Chapter 17 **

**No Good Deed Goes Unpunished **

**_One_ **

Across the street several of the smarter ones glanced up, following the old white haired one's gaze. They frowned. They didn't know what the hell they were looking at, and they continued to stare, even as the clouds split open and the thunder and lightning turned the world around them bright white, even at that distance.

Then there was that unholy howling. Strong, powerful.

Hungry.

That sound froze the others in place. The old white haired one was already backing away, towards the black sedan he and notDean had driven in all the way from McCoy. He felt the overwhelming need to conceal himself, to hide, which was unusual for his kind, but that feeling had served him well in the past, and he saw no reason to stop trusting that instinct now.

Even now that trickster hunter might be coming for them, and the old white haired one figured that if he put these fools between him and the hunter, he might stand a chance, get away before those green eyes locked on him. He was sure that the hunter remembered him from the sewer, and even though the old one's mate had died down there because of the hunter, old white hair had no desire to avenge her death. He could always find another mate.

He slipped in behind the wheel of the car, and he was nervous, tried to calm himself, as he fumbled with the car keys in the ignition. At one point he dropped them on the floor and he had to lean down to pick them up.

Shadows slipped past the car in the night. His ears pricked up at the faint clink of metal.

There was an even stronger scent of sulfur in the air.

When he raised up it was already too late.

He didn't recognize any of the people who stood around the car. Black eyes all around, and he didn't realize there was anything wrong until he looked, really looked, and saw the dogs on the ground, bound up in chains that burned their skin. The stench of burning flesh and fur wafted through the air. Several of the dogs were dragged by their legs towards a large crevasse in the ground.

The chimps were next.

A housewife wearing a pink hairnet and housecoat smashed the driver's side window and hooked her dainty hands into the white one's hair.

He didn't even have time enough to scream.

Once the old white haired one was bound and gagged with a length of chain that burned his mouth and tongue (the better to shut him the hell up), the Ursi Taku demon clan cast nervous glances across the street.

Time to get going.

They tossed the Ilimu down into the crevasse and jumped in after them.

There was a major player in town, something new, a presence they'd sensed all night, but they had no desire to try to acquire it. Ursi Taku were evil, they were the scum of Hell, but they weren't stupid. They'd gotten most of what they'd come for.

From the sound of it, this hungry new thing could deal with the stragglers.

Several hundred feet away, the Ilimu inside Officer Chambers' body sat inside the K9 unit staring out at the night, its black eyes concealed by a pair of sunglasses. In the cage behind him the dog stirred, black eyed, unblinking.

_Huh. Better them than me. _

It put the cruiser in reverse and slowly backed up.

_**Two**_

_I thought the nosebleed was a nice touch,_ Coyote murmured softly.

Dean didn't answer. Not right away.

_That…that was…_Dean stood there wide-eyed. He raised his arms, stared at his hands. He could still see a soft golden glow in his skin, in his clothing. And why the hell was his voice sounding kinda…squeaky? _I sound like a damn girl_, he thought, frowning. He cleared his throat, roughened his voice, tried it again.

_Thanks. _His thought voice was a low growl. Better._ Had to make it look convincing…_

Calling up the memory of his near-fatal heart attack was something he could have well done without. Getting manhandled (apehandled? Whatever, dude) and hit twice hard by that damned dirty Ilimu hadn't felt so good either, but _this_… _this_ was the afterglow and _this_ …felt…_good_.

_Damn good._

Better than going on a successful hunt, when everything flowed together and fell into place.

Better than that time in that oversized hot tub in Vegas at the Elvis Presley Presidential Suite in the MGM Grand with the McMurtry twins, Sophie and Lana.

This felt better than anything that Dean had ever felt in his entire life. Better than music. Better than sex. Better than food.

_Damnn…_

_Oh, he likes it. Mikey likes it,_ Coyote purred slyly.

_Hell yeah I do._

_That's not even a quarter of what I had before._ Coyote suddenly looked shifty eyed. He licked at the fur on his shoulder and looked away. Pointedly. _Sometimes the magic works_, he thought…

Son of a bitch, Dean murmured softly. He watched the glow fade slowly into his skin. 

…_and sometimes, it doesn't._

_**Three**_

notDean grinned as he pulled the machete out of the Impala's trunk. The Ilimu inside Bobby Singer's body shook Bobby's head. "And what the hell are you planning on doing with _that_?" it said sharply, indicating the machete with a tilt of Bobby's head.

"We got to play all the cards we have to get Winchester to come over here," notDean pulled the machete out of its sheath and hefted the blade by the handle as he threw the sheath back into the Impala's battered trunk. "Pick a body part you don't need and let's do this."

DemonBobby crossed his arms over his chest. "Dumbass," he muttered.

"Well, what? It's not like you're _stuck _in there," notDean scowled, made a handflap towards Bobby's body.

"I happen to like this body. It's like a good pair of shoes. Feels…comfortable."

"Comfortable?" notDean wrinkled up his nose. "That old thing?"

"You go for flash and dash. I like serviceable and comfortable."

notDean shrugged and rolled his eyes. "Whatever. You gonna make 'im scream, or what?"

DemonBobby smiled. "Like a banshee."

It took a while, they had to give the old man that. Tucked away inside his own headspace, Bobby didn't scare easily, and he apparently had an extremely high pain threshold. He cursed them out as the dog pack tore him to pieces, then they put him back together and started in on him again using the memory of an angry mob with pitchforks and machetes. It was something Bobby had witnessed when he was overseas, fighting in one of those wars the humans seemed to need to have every few years.

Bobby cursed and shrugged it all off.

"Is that all you demonic assholes got?" Bobby snarled, and outside in the real world notDean quirked an eyebrow at DemonBobby and shook his head.

Everything faded away into black after the last strike with the machete took Bobby's head off, and when he came to again he hung by his wrists from a metal hook in a ceiling in a dimly lit basement somewhere. He was bare-chested, and his skin broke into goose-bumps from the chill.

_Not real_, Bobby reminded himself. _None of this shit is real._

He heard a sound from behind him, and he had to twist his body around just to look.

Something that looked like John Winchester stood there, wearing the same blood stained denim clothes he wore in the hospital after the car crash.

"John?" Bobby said before he could stop himself.

"Bobby." notJohn bared his teeth and nodded. "I hear you been keepin' tabs on my boys. Tryin' to take my place with 'em."

Bobby's eyes narrowed. "You're not real."

"You think I don't remember that the last time I saw you," notJohn growled, "you threatened to shoot me? You think I don't remember _that_?"

"You're dead and gone, John." Bobby was amazed at how strong his voice sounded.

"You need to stay the hell away from my boys, you bastard. Let me show you a little trick I picked up downstairs," notJohn said smiling, and he put his fingertips on Bobby's bare chest.

A tingle at first, then the burning started, searing white hot agony, and it spread. Those broad blunt fingertips sunk into him, and Bobby watched his skin turn to flakes of grey ash. Bobby's nostrils flared, filled up with the stench of his own burning flesh. He tried to jerk backwards, out of reach, and notJohn put his hand at the back of Bobby's head to hold him there. notJohn's touch crisped the hair on Bobby's chest and head and he twisted and turned his hand as he worked his fingers beneath Bobby's skin.

Trapped inside his own head, Bobby Singer began to scream.

_**Four **_

The Anasazi protection runes were still in place around the building, which was good.

Dean felt the hair on the back of his neck raise up as he stepped over them and walked up to the building, and _that_ was bad.

He cocked his head to one side, and listened. It was dead quiet, and it shouldn't have been.

The people inside should have thrown up barricades of anything that could be moved to the front entrance. They should have been armed with guns from the Sporting Goods Section, especially after what they'd seen and gone through out there on the parking lot.

Instead, nothing.

Coyote jerked back so roughly from the store entrance Dean actually took a stumble-step backwards.

_Dude, what the hell---_

_Couldn't see them, couldn't see any of this —_ Coyote sounded spooked.

Dean felt his stomach drop.

_They'd just summoned down lightning, a freaking lightning bolt, in the parking lot, and stood there laughing about it. And now the Old Man sounded like he wanted to back up, shag ass in the opposite direction._

Dean tensed up as he stepped past the outer sliding doors (which felt wrong wrong _wrong_ – he shouldn't have been able to just_ walk_ in like this). Something tiny and dark buzzed in the air around his ears. The sound was loud, persistent and pretty damned annoying. It pissed him off instantly, and he felt his blood rise as he growled deep in his throat and lifted one hand to swipe at it. He wanted to kill whatever the hell this was. Not only kill it, he wanted to annihilate the damned thing. Wipe it totally from the face of the earth.

The buzzing stopped. Dean eased up to the inner doors. He expected to get a faceful of lead, or buckshot at the very least.

Nothing happened.

He stepped inside.

There were people laying on the floor, and sitting up against the walls. Everywhere. Must have been about a couple hundred of them, not counting the store employees. A slight murmuring sound filled Dean's ears, and when he concentrated a little harder, he realized he was listening to their thoughts as they lay there all glassy eyed.

…_damn kid…_

…_monster…_

…_freak…_

Some of them could _see_ him, and the ones that could were _afraid _of him.

_Damn right_, Dean thought. He scowled and turned the volume in his head down. Way down. He'd had enough of _that_. What had happened in that diner days before had turned him off on telepathy, especially around a group of people. He shook his head to clear it, and that was when he glanced down at the floor and stopped dead in his tracks.

The floor was transparent. Thick clear glass that wasn't really glass stretched as far as the eye could see, from wall to wall, underneath his feet. And the landscape underneath the glass was hellish…tall buildings covered in flames, dark clouds, swirling orange and yellow flame. The cityscape faded away into a mountainous hillside that was bare molten rock. Pale shapes and boiling dark clouds glided back and forth over the dark rocks below.

The distance between the ceiling and the ground down there seemed vast. The ceiling was about six, maybe seven feet away from the tops of those rocks or hills, or whatever they were. Whatever that was gliding and floating around down there was far away now, but as Dean watched several hundred of them gathered at the foothills and started moving.

Up the hillside.

It was the most freaked out thing Dean had ever seen, and he knew what it was, even though he'd never seen one, not in the flesh so to speak. It was a hellmouth. A fucking portal into Hell. He'd heard about small ones, man traps that could open up suddenly and take down unsuspecting humans, tucked away in secret corners of abandoned houses, in out of the way places like forests and swamplands, but this…this mother was huge.

Dean knelt down. He put his hand palm flat on the floor and there wasn't even a ripple. It was thick. Solid.

For now.

"Well. Hell." Dean murmured to himself out loud. "That's something you don't see everyday."

Dean had a moment of disorientation as he looked around. Racks of clothing sat all normal and undisturbed on top of the damn thing. Shopping carts filled with merchandise were in the aisle. It all looked so fucking_ normal_.

That is, if you could ignore all the entranced humans lying around the place.

_We have to leave. _Coyote's thought voice was a tense whisper._ Now. Right now._

Dean ignored him. He stood up, head tilted back, quietly scenting the air.His nostrils flared as he caught the scent of something warm, exotic. Female.

He should have been thinking about how he was going to stop this. Should have been thinking about how he was going to singlehandedly evacuate or protect several hundred people. Should have been thinking about laying down salt on the floor, at least. There was a reason those things downstairs were climbing up.

Instead the only thing Dean could think about was where that scent was coming from. It seemed oddly familiar, yet it wasn't.

"So… Mą'ii," a voice from the left and behind him said softly. "d'ya like what we've done with the place?"

Dean froze. For a split second he stood locked in place. Coyote was in control now, and Dean didn't like it.

"You're not supposed to_ be_ here," Dean heard himself say out loud, but his voice had a rough, wild timbre to it that he'd never heard before. His lips moved, but it wasn't him. "I sent you _back_. Sent you _home_."

She was a brunette. Dean could somehow tell just from the scent. Now if the old bastard would just let him turn around and take a look….

"Old Man, we forgive you for that."

"What…what happened here?" Coyote sounded bewildered, troubled.

"He's beautiful, your boy," another female voice answered. Dean couldn't see her yet. Smelled like a redhead. "Sooo pretty. I can see why they put the two of you together."

Coyote finally let go, reluctantly, and Dean turned around.

Slymm. Her name was Slymm.

She sat curled up on top of a plexiglass display case like some expensive long-legged cat. Heart shaped face framed by long brunette hair. Impossibly long eyelashes, almost as long as Dean's, framed wide, greenish-gold eyes, and her pupils were slitted, like a cat. Full luscious lips. As near as Dean could tell, she was naked, but her small firm chest, concave stomach and shapely hips were covered with sleek dark brown fur from the underside of her jaw all the way down to the tops of her feet.

The closest thing Dean had ever seen like it were those exotic dancers in that men's club up in Seattle. They'd worn skillfully applied body paint and latex make-up to give the illusion that they were jungle cats. Dean knew it was skillfully applied because when he'd spent some time with one of the dancers immediately after the show (Shalimar was her name, he remembered) even up close the illusion was so good, so complete he didn't want to remove it.

So they didn't.

This one's arms were as long as her legs. The bend of her joints and the proportions were_ all_ wrong. She wasn't human, and she wasn't even trying to pretend. She radiated a sense of _Other_, and Dean could appreciate that as he breathed in her warm spicy scent.

He felt himself shift his stance. He squared his shoulders back, stood relaxed and easy. The alpha male of the species posturing for the female's approval. He smiled brightly at her, and she actually ducked her head shyly, glanced down at the floor and then back up at him again.

"Well, hello there," Dean said smoothly. Damn, the view was pretty spectacular from where he was, and he could tell from the smile on her face she liked what she was seeing from his end as well.

A long slender tail waved lanquidly in the air behind her.

Still smiling, Dean took a step back, the better to see all of you, my dear, and he backed up right into the other one.

Redd.

She purred deep and low right into the shell of his right ear. "Hullo, sweetness."

They were twins. He smelled the sister bond between them. He could see Redd from behind, and he didn't even have to turn around all the way. Same features, only her red hair was long and wavy and her fur was auburn red. She was a little curvier, a little heavier than her sister.

Dean felt her long red tail slide and wrap around his right thigh. She pressed into him from behind, and as her arms slid around his arms and chest he saw that her sharp fingernails were a pearly white metallic color.

He imagined her body arched against him, those nails digging into his shoulders, raking a shallow path down his back. Dean was imagining a lot of other things right now, and he didn't give a damn that Coyote could see them too.

Dean nodded. "Evenin', darlin'," he growled softly.

She pressed into him from behind, her hands moving slowly, eagerly, over his chest. He leaned back into her, and she nipped at his ear, bent her head to the long line of his neck, licked and nipped at the skin.

He very nearly moaned out loud as she took his earlobe into her mouth and tugged at it with her teeth.

Slymm frowned.

"Told you, he always did like me best," Redd purred, and Slymm growled, lifted up one corner of her luscious full lip exposing sharp white teeth. She got down off the display case in one long stretch and padded off in a huff.

It didn't seem strange, or weird. Didn't seem strange at all, just comfortable and familiar. A week ago he would have hunted them down with no hesitation. A week ago seemed like a lifetime ago, faint and distant.

"Only one heart now, not two. So sad," Redd purred, her roving hands coming to a stop directly over Dean's chest. She put her chin on his shoulder, listened to his quickening heartbeat.

She moved her hands down, dug her fingers into his hipbones. He bowed his head and closed his eyes. "Good old days…bad old days…" the low whisper of her voice in his ear stirred things up inside him. "…you're finally out again…long time coming…"

"Here's a present for you," the other one said. Dean opened his eyes and she dumped something that squirmed and cursed in a boneless heap at Dean's feet.

"Tried to hurt you. Doesn't like you," Slymm said softly, and she looked up at Dean and smiled. She stuck her tongue out at her sister when Red leaned over Dean's shoulder and stuck her tongue out at her first.

Dean smiled.

Well, well. Hello, Trucker Dude.

The damn fool scrambled to his feet, tried to aim the shotgun (loaded too, by the smell of gunpowder and the weight). The glint in Dean's pupils flared up, turned a dark gold and Dean laughed as the shotgun went flying in one direction, and he picked up the dude with a snap of his mind and a wave of his hand and sent him flying in the opposite direction, into the far wall in the Boys' Wear section.

Dean walked forward, easily slipping out of Redd's embrace. Her fingertips skimmed across his leather jacket and she silently dropped down to all fours.

_I get it,_ Dean thought. _I finally do._ He lengthened his stride, all swagger and broad shoulders and leather, and the sisters cooed in appreciation. _Used to wonder why all the fuglies I ever hunted always did that to me, and now I know why._

_Because they can. _

_And it's fun. Well, not so much fun for the throwee, but…_

Dean waved his right hand in a curt sideways gesture and the shelving and clothes that had fallen on top of the guy parted like the Red Sea. Another thought and the dude was pulled up on his feet in one motion, his arms pinned to his sides, his feet forced together, toes pointed downwards. Dean ignored the way the guy was gasping for breath, the way his left arm was twisted at an awkward angle. Probably broken.

Gee. Too damn bad.

Dude apparently didn't have sense enough to keep his mouth shut. "Freak," the guy spat at Dean. "Fuck you…"

Dean shrugged and tossed him into the opposite far wall.

Dean walked over. The sisters prowled the floor behind him, on all fours, crossing back and forth in front and behind each other, with a fluid slinking motion that clearly wasn't human and never had been. Dean could hear them purring, a rough vibration that climbed up and down his spine. He had a mental image of the sleek redhead nuzzling into his ear with her lips and tongue as he took her, slow, and rough and deep, felt the way the brunette's fur and skin rippled under his mouth as he tasted her, licked her.

Later. Definitely something to put at the top of the "To Do" List.

This time the dude was completely covered by broken shelving and women's clothing. Dean stuck his hand into the pile and felt around until he touched something soft and fleshy.

"Yahtzee," Dean murmured, and he pinched the guy's nose shut between the knuckles of his fingers, Three Stooges style, and pulled him up and out into the open. Cartilage shifted and crunched between Dean's fingers, and the dude groaned, obviously in a hell of a lot of pain, but right now Dean didn't give a damn. He pulled him up on his knees.

Dean knelt down. He turned his serene, golden eyed gaze on the blood that slicked his knuckles. It smelled warm and good. Be a shame to just wipe it off, let it go to waste.

Dean carefully licked his fingers clean.

Once he finished that he tilted his head to one side as he slowly, thoughtfully stared at the man's throat. He could feel the ridges of the dude's windpipe underneath the skin.

Dean lifted his head, looked around at all the humans as they lay where they had fallen, or sat slumped against the walls.

These toys were fragile. Easily broken.

He'd have to remember that.

He felt no connection at all when he looked at them. They were _weak_, and he wasn't. Strength and energy and life flowed through him. He felt young, he felt better than he ever had in his whole entire fucking life.

He turned his attention back to the trucker. All it would take would be a single snap, but then Dean realized that would have been too…quick.

Not enough pain. Not enough suffering, and Dean smiled slightly at the thought.

Dude reminded him of that sheriff up in Washington state on that ghúl hunt last year, the one that had Dean roughed up, and then locked up overnight.

That doctor in upstate New York who'd stumbled onto that spell book at the local bookstore at the turn of the twentieth century. He'd had his eye on Sam this time, thought he could transfer his soul into Sam's body, live another forty or so years on borrowed time, then move onto the next victim.

He thought wrong.

The townies in the pool hall who got pissed when Dean collected his winnings. None of them could play worth a damn, and Dean was like a shark in a pool full of minnows. They accused Dean of cheating, and they tried to jump him out in the parking lot on his way to the Impala. He was just some punk kid passing through, a drifter, a nobody. Who'd notice, who'd even give a care if he just up and disappeared in some Podunk town somewhere?

Trucker Dude was every jackass, every damn fool Dean had ever met in his entire life, and it felt good to hurt him/them.

It. Felt. Right.

The trucker stared at Dean, shaking, wide-eyed. "Freak…you fucking freak…"

"I may be a freak," Dean whispered coldly into his ear, and his eyes flashed dangerously. "I might not be. _You're_ the one broken up, down there on your knees. How's _that_ working out for you, buddy boy?"

Dean saw the guy's throat work, knew that he was gathering what saliva he had in his mouth to spit directly in Dean's face, and Dean squeezed his throat shut without even touching him, felt that rough stubble covered skin in his mind. He enjoyed seeing the guy gasping for air, but it wasn't enough.

Dean wanted to see more. Something…dark. Wet.

He flinched as the room blurred around him, and Sam stood there, concern and worry on his face, and when the hell did Wal-Mart look like the inside of a medical clinic anyway?

Little brother was wound up tight about some damn thing, and Dean's right hand curled up into a fist at the sight of Sam's pissy face. "_You might kill an innocent man, and you don't even care."_

"He's _not_ innocent, Sam,"Dean murmured out loud. The yellow glow in his eyes flared up, and he suddenly didn't even care anymore about hiding them. "None of them are."

"_You don't act like yourself anymore, Dean. Hell, you know what? You're acting like one of those things out there…"_

Dean blinked slowly. The glow in his eyes faded out.

_Damn._

River Grove, Oregon. The demonic virus. And God, he'd shot Mrs. Tanner, shot her dead, didn't even hesitate, when Sam confirmed that the woman was infected, after she'd attacked Sam earlier…

And even though he'd kept his game face on, and the mask didn't slip, Dean couldn't tell Sam, couldn't tell anyone, that after he'd shot the woman he felt like laughing wildly. After he shot her he felt…cheerful. Gleeful. And then, just as quickly, he felt like curling up in a ball on the floor, keening, desperate, crying, his sanity slipping away as he tried to hold onto it with clawed hands and worn down fingernails.

He swung back and forth between those two different moods so much it scared the living shit out of him.

Dean released his hold on the trucker, and stood up and stepped back as the guy slumped down onto the floor. The sisters were suddenly _there_, right next to him. Redd curled into him in front, and Slymm pressed into him from the back. He could feel the heat from their bodies, and he shuddered as the redhead ran her fingers through the short hair at the nape of his neck.

They talked to him at the same time, touching him about the face and neck, begging, pleading.

"Little brother doesn't understand…never did…"

"...don't listen to him. Don't leave us…."

The touch of their skin made his flesh crawl.

"You sent us away the first time. S'okay, it's all right..."

"...forgive you. We'll never leave you again…"

_God,_ he thought, gagging, _get off me. Get the hell off me…_

"…he brought us back up from hell for you. Set this up, all for you, a present for you from old Yellow Eyes," Slymm blurted out, and Dean's eyes and Redd's eyes widened in shock and surprise at the same exact time.

And as soon as she said it, whatever good feeling that was left slipped away from Dean, drained right out of him, left him feeling cold and empty. That blood taste turned sour in his mouth. Dean felt his stomach rise up towards his throat and it was all he could do not to drop to his knees and start painting the tiled floor with his stomach contents right then and there.

He backed up from them. Redd reached out to him and he scowled as he batted her hand away, hard. He felt like he was coming down from a high. His head felt like it had been squeezed shut, then opened wide again.

The redhead turned, hissing like a tea kettle on high boil, and she cuffed her sister upside the head with suddenly clawed hands. Blood flew. Red stripes marked the brunette's face, and soon they were fighting each other, hissing and snarling, rolling around on the floor in that boneless, shifting way that cats do.

_Have to get out of here,_ Dean thought hazily. _Have to get out._ _Now. Right fucking now._

On the way out he happened to glance into one of the corners, and he immediately wished he hadn't. Joe and Ruby McCandless sat slumped over there. Ruby's head was on Joe's shoulder, and Joe had his arms around her, his hands draped protectively over her gently round stomach. Over the unborn baby, Sam.

He started to go over there, but what was the fucking point? He could tell just by looking at them that they were still alive, he could see them breathe, see the rise and fall of their chests.

…_promised us we'd be safe…_Joe stared at Dean, glassy-eyed, seeing but not seeing…_you promised us…_

Dean backed away, away from the sisters, the glass ceiling over Hell. He could remove the threat in here. He could do that, at least. The sisters were demonic…groupies. Followers. He somehow knew that they were harmless without someone to lead them.

The barrier between Earth and Hell was solid, for the time being.

The most dangerous thing in here was _him_.

The need/desire to just start hurting _someone_, _anyone_ churned his insides, and Dean knew that once he started he wouldn't stop.

Couldn't stop.

Once he was outside Dean leaned against the building, breathed in great hitching lungfuls of night air. He gathered up the saliva in his mouth and spat it out onto the grass. All the liquor in the world couldn't remove that taste, couldn't erase the memory of what he'd done. He looked up at the maroon night sky and it was all jacked up.

_What's…what's wrong with me?_

Coyote didn't say anything.

_Answer me, damn it! What's wrong with me?_

Coyote said slowly, _Place like this brings out the worst in our kind, niño. Only difference is we can do more…damage than…__**they**__ can._

_**Our**__ kind?_

Coyote sounded amused._ Haven't you been paying attention the last couple hours or so?_

_Did I…did we do that on purpose?_

_Did we do what?_

_Don't get stupid on me now, you fleabitten sumbitch. Did we give those people to those things? When I...when I laid those symbols down I stopped those things from getting in…but…_

_Don't. You thought you were protecting those people. Couldn't see it then. Didn't know. We were drawn to this place. _

_Those women…what…what the hell are they?_

Coyote took a deep breath. _There was a time when I…when **we** were dark. Two hearted. Did terrible things, and we didn't care. They followed us around. _He gave a mental shrug._ We did…things together. Thought we could be family. Thought wrong. _

Dean pressed his forehead against the side of the building. The bricks felt rough and cool against his overheated skin, but it didn't help.

God help him, he didn't want Sam to see him like _this_. Yellow eyed bastard was right. Sam would take one look at him and instantly know something was wrong.

Know Dean was _wrong_.

Dean jerked back, frowning. He smelled burning flesh. Had a brief flash of Bobby Singer screaming while John Winchester smiled at him.

_Bobby._

_Ah, damn._

_Bobby…_


	18. Chapter 18 Dog In Sheep's Clothing

Computers are our friends --- except for when they try to crash and take your work with them. Then computers are **_baddd_**.

Hey wait a minute, I've got over one hundred reviews!

Time out.

WHEEEEEE!

Okay, I'm good now.

A/N: For heather03mg (and any other interested parties) – James Everett Daley and the immature Ilimu first appeared in part 4 of Chapter 8, "Suicide by Fugly", when Daley had the unfortunate luck to be chosen by notDean to carry the little SOBs inside his body.

I know I promised two chapters, but due to the aforementioned computer problems, here's one loong one.

Warnings: Well, let's see. Cursing, violence, weirdness, angst, and the brothers reunite.

And now, let the carnage and the angst continue….

**Dog Eat Dog**

**Chapter 18 Dog in Sheep's Clothing**

**One**

They were thirteen at first, an unlucky number if there ever was one, then thirteen became twenty six, and now there were almost seventy five of them, crowded inside James Everett Daley's oversized skin. The mind and soul part that was Daley was long gone, eaten away, screaming, and after that they'd started on the bones underneath his skin. They were hungry, and the one with the green eyes and the cruel smile promised them food. Good food, if they would just stay put and be quiet.

After a while it was easy to be quiet. They'd eaten away most of the soft vital organs, including Daley's brain, and tongue. One of the first, one of the oldest, was curled up inside Daley's oversized skull like a viper inside an eggshell. It refused to move and it snapped at the others with jagged teeth if they came too close.

They were way too young to go on an extended hunt, and notDean had cursed loud and long when he picked them up at that out of the way gas station on the interstate. They were inexperienced, too dumb to realize that on an extended hunt/chase you possess humans first, the better able to drive cars, hitchhike, steal, whatever you needed to do. Switching into an animal's body for a long hunt just wasn't practical over here in the good old US of A, unless you stuck to a specific area and played musical chairs with the local fauna.

Ilimu were demons, but they followed more basic urges that were almost biological. They'd stayed cooped up inside Daley's skin for far too long, and like humans trapped inside houses and apartment buildings during a blizzard, one thing led to another…

And now the brats needed to be fed, or they were going to start feeding on each other.

_**Two**_

_We're skulkin' around in the dark, with no plan, and no clue. You __**do**__ remember what a plan is, right?_ Coyote was pissed, and he wasn't even trying to hide it.

_Yeah, well, sunshine, this ain't my idea of a party, either._ Standing in the alleyway across the street from the Roadway Inn, Dean muttered aloud under his breath, "Anyway, we've _got_ a plan. You're just being a total bitch about it."

_Making him scream, using him as bait, that's an old hunter's trick, _Coyote hissed._ Older than I am._

Dean scoffed._ Duh! Ya think? Shit!_ He flinched when he caught sight of the Impala. From what he could see, they'd dented the girl's trunk and hood. Underneath the flickering streetlights Dean caught sight of glittering bits of glass on the ground in front of the car. That meant they'd broken her headlights. Dean started swearing up a blue streak.

_I'm sorry, baby. I'm__** so**__ sorry. Damn, I will kill the bastards that did this to you. Kill them, bring them back to life and then kill their sorry hellbound asses all over again---_

_Will you stop thinking about that damn car and__** listen**__ to me?_

_She's not a damn car,_ Dean said sulkily. _Don't talk about her like that. _

Coyote rolled his eyes._ We'll just barge in, instead of being sneaky about it.__** This**__ is your plan?_

_Why yes, yes it is, _Dean said, deadpan. Coyote's answering grunt, soft, disgusted, sounded eerily just like Sam's. Dean looked down and to the side, blinking as he experienced a sharp moment of déjà vu. We g_o in hard and fast. Knock 'im down before they spring whatever they have waiting for us. We tag team 'em. You__** do **__know what tag teaming somebody means, don't you?_

_I know what it means, _Coyote growled._ You watch way too much damn television, youngling._

_If I was watchin' it, then you were too. Didn't ever hear you complainin'._

Coyote didn't answer.

_They've got something planned for us. Something nasty. You got any better ideas, old man, I'd sure like to hear it. I can't leave Bobby like this, and you know it. _

Coyote mumbled a few choice curse words under his breath.

Dean's fingertips tingled in anticipation. He blinked slowly as the sensation swept up and down his body, from head to toe. It was showtime.Having powers and abilities beyond those of mortal men (and he smirked a little at the thought) didn't stop those butterflies in his stomach. Didn't stop his heart from pounding in his chest.

_Protect yourself, _he told Coyote._ I go down, well, you know what to do…_

_Stop talkin' and do it before I change my damn mind._

Less than a minute later Dean put his boot to the door. He put the force of his mind behind it, and the corners of the door embedded themselves into the walls with a booming thud that cracked the walls.

_Shock and awe, baby. Friggin' shock and awe._

He was inside the room fast. The one in the brown leather jacket was armed with a sawed-off shotgun, so Dean went after him first. Dean hesitated for a split second, disoriented. He saw his own face, his own body as he jerked the gun away. He slammed the dude into the wall and held him there with his mind. Dean almost pulled the force he put behind it, then realized he was about to screw up, and pushed out _hard_.

At first glance he thought it was a 'shifter, but the scent was wrong. Ilimu, then. Bastard was obviously meant to snare Sam, only he got Bobby instead.

Dean took in all the details, from the spiky hair, the eyes, the spray of freckles across its nose. The nervous way the bastard even bit and licked his lips as he looked back at Dean. What the hell was it about his face and body that made it so fucking attractive to all those fuglies out there? Dean tilted his head to one side and felt his throat vibrate in a growl that was so low he felt it rather than heard it.

Bobby was still screaming inside his head as Dean flattened Bobby's body against the wall. The Ilimu inside grinned like a maniac. Maybe it was a trick of the light, but Dean could see the darkness boiling up underneath Bobby's skin. He placed the palm of his hand on Bobby's forehead and the words that came out of Dean's mouth were older than Latin, strange yet familiar.

Inside Bobby's headspace Dean saw the thing wearing John Winchester's face and body gasp as it came apart in a shimmer of energy.

Dean lifted the palm of his hand away from Bobby's forehead and the demon came with it, oozing out of the skin on Bobby's face, out of his eyes, his mouth, and his nose. It was trapped between his fingers, then it unraveled as Dean finished the invocation. Dean released his hold on Bobby, eased him slowly, gently down the wall. He checked Bobby's vitals, and they were surprisingly strong, considering what the older hunter had gone through. Bobby was quiet.

And that was that.

Dean just stood there for a moment. He frowned at the sight of Sam's duffel bag, carefully laid on the corner of the bed. Sam's laptop was still on that wooden table near the window. Dean saw his own duffel bag and clothes carefully laid out at the foot of Sam's bed.

He cursed under his breath when he saw Bobby's dog, sprawled still and bloody on the floor.

" 'bout time you showed up," and the sound of that deep smooth voice actually set Dean's teeth on edge. The lopsided grin was bright, full of malice. "You're a hard man to find, you know that?"

Dean just looked at him.

…_wrong… all wrong…more here than these two…_

The hair on the back of Dean's neck raised up. His eyes widened.

Something in the air directly behind him…something...he turned around slowly.

There were three of them, one on the top, the other two directly below. They floated lazily in the air. Their tails waved lanquidly from side from side. The bodies were black boiling smoke that tapered off to a point. The eyes were sunken, large, pitch black, and shiny. The teeth were the worst part. Long, jagged, and curved. Damn things looked like moray eels.

Dean frowned._ What the fuck?_

He tilted his head to one side, frowning. They copied the motion, furled their brows right back at him.

…_feed…taste… pretty… food…eat…_

They bared their teeth at him, and Dean bared his right back.

_Bite me. _

Their mouths opened and they lunged at him, shrieking. The light in Dean's eyes flared up and out in a wide angle, catching them in mid-air, and they tried to backpedal, screaming as they dissolved into wisps of dead purplish black smoke.

"Punks," Dean muttered under his breath as he turned away. He stopped short. That sense of impending doom was back again – hell, it had never _left_, and the hair at the back of his neck still stood straight out.. Something moved just inside the outer edge of his vision, and he glanced up, over his head, and that was when he saw this…thing clinging to the ceiling.

It looked like a large blanket made of pulsating human skin.

It darkened, and the skin rippled as something snakelike flowed underneath the surface. Dean could see human hair follicles sticking out, tattoos here and there (prison tatts, by the look of them). The skin rose and fell with the motion of whatever was in there. Parts of the skin broke out into goosebumps, and oh shit, Dean actually took a step back (even though he wasn't aware that he did) when he realized that there was a human face up there in the middle of the top of the damned thing, eyes open and blank, mouth like a pink overstretched rubber band. As he watched one of the things thrust itself past those slack lips, extended itself out in the open air, and bared its teeth at him.

"Son of a bitch---"

Something hit him hard and fast from the side and from behind, and bounced back out the same way. Dean's knees buckled, and the only reason he didn't hit the floor was because Coyote nestled inside his chest, shielded, right next to his heart and lungs.

It hurt, oh God, it hurt. Teeth sliced through muscles, tendons, grated on bone. Dean bit back the scream rising in his throat, or at least he thought he did. So much pain…the most he could manage was a choked off moan.

Coyote pushed against the shielding._ …let me…_

…_stay inside… gnnuh... stay…_

They were all over him, swarming, biting, black clouds of boiling smoke. The faces grinned happily at Dean as they ripped at him. Out on his own, all by himself, he was already slipping, starting to fall behind healing the damage they were inflicting on him, killing them, and shielding himself all at the same time.

He hooked half of the fuckers with his mind, and at least had the brief satisfaction of seeing the things scream and mewl as they dissolved from the inside out.

It wasn't enough.

One of the bigger ones blindsided him, hit him so hard it made him stagger. Blood flew, splattering the walls.

Something warm trickled down the side of his neck. Forget trickling, it was _flowing_. Dean heard something like rain hitting the floor, and everything was getting kinda grey and fuzzy around the edges. He frowned. Hadn't been raining when he walked in the place….

The last thing he remembered was staring over at the wall, looking at himself.

That ...wasn't…right. Two places at once. Huh.

The grin on the other one's face was wide and easy, and Dean briefly wondered what the joke was. He shivered. He felt cold. The yellow glow in Dean's eyes flickered weakly, and notDean's grin got even wider.

…_let me OUT…_

… _not…yet…not…uhnnh…_

Dean stood there, swaying slightly from side to side, and notDean's eyes narrowed slightly. He was starting to have his doubts. Seemed the kid had more endurance than he'd thought, and notDean didn't want to get near him to finish the job, didn't want to get within the reach of those hands.

A couple of stumble-steps towards the door, then Dean stopped, still swaying. His clothes were pretty ripped up. The back of his leather jacket was slashed. His eyes grew unfocused, then rolled up white. His head rocked back, his knees buckled, and he face-planted into the floor.

Hard.

notDean said grudgingly, "He made that godling thing look good, I'll give 'im that."

Overhead, the skin bunched up, moved backwards on the ceiling. notDean got shakily to his feet, and watched intently as the damned thing dropped to the floor with a squishy thud, right behind Dean. It looked like a cocoon now, and as notDean watched it raised up, extended what was left of Daley's withered floppy arms. It wrapped them around Dean's ankles and pulled him inside, and then settled down over him.

Daley's skin hardened into something resembling thick, grayish-brown, cracked leather. Occasionally a face pushed its way through, all dark sunken eyes, smiles filled with jagged teeth.

notDean kicked the writhing mass repeatedly in the side. The faces frowned and snarled at him, tried to bite his boot. "Get back in there and feed, will 'ya?"

The cocoon gave a violent shudder, and notDean took a step back.

_Shit._

Faces swum up to the surface, their mouths stretched wide in distress. They looked like they were trying to get away from something. notDean's eyes narrowed as the cocoon shuddered again. More faces swum up to the surface, then just as quickly, seemed to be jerked back under, their mouths stretched wide, silently screaming.

_Shit shit shit --- _

The damn thing started glowing from the inside---

notDean backed up---

---and the cocoon split down the middle, forced open by this blinding golden light.

notDean shielded his eyes with his hand. He couldn't see a damn thing, knew by memory that the door to the outside was over in **that** direction, and out the door seemed to be a hell of a good place to be. He was inching his way along the wall when he felt a hand grab him roughly by the collar of his jacket, and everything went pitch black.

_Hello, freak._

Coyote let the unconscious Ilimu drop to the floor. Coyote's eyes blazed yellow, and a shimmer of energy enveloped him from head to toe. He flexed his arms and legs, and watched with satisfaction as the blood stopped flowing, the gashes and slash-marks smoothed out and disappeared. The rips and tears in his clothing repaired themselves.

He noticed the dog lying on the floor at his feet, and extended his aura to include her battered body.

He didn't notice that Bobby Singer's eyes opened, then closed just as quickly.

Coyote looked over at what was left of the cocoon, a smear of grey ash on that cheap brown motel carpet, and he couldn't help but shudder. That had to easily be one of the nastiest things he'd ever gone through, and _that_ was saying something. The sulfur stench inside that damned thing, the feel of all those mouths against his skin, and those godawful teeth…

The kid's plan had worked. It was half-assed, and it was damned crazy, but it _had_ worked, Coyote had to give him that.

And yeah, Coyote _had_ gotten quiet when the wrestling matches were on, too, although he'd never admit it.

Inside his head he felt Dean stir, but he was still unconscious, and it would probably be several more moments before he woke up fully.

Until then, Coyote was driving.

_If I had any sense at all, I'd leave. Right now. This is a fool's mission. I should wall him up right now, leave right now. Damn fool kid is gonna get us both killed, I know it. _

Coyote looked down at the dog, and Condie rolled over on her stomach.

Coyote stared at her. She placed her feet underneath her body, and stood up. She shook herself rather vigorously, from head to tail, and the blood flew off her like she was shaking off raindrops. The amulets and charms on her collar made a clear, bell-like sound. The blood disappeared in mid-air, and as Coyote watched the dents in her head filled in, closed up and her dull, pain-racked eyes became bright and healthy.

The dog sat down, cocked her head to one side, pricked those large ears as she looked up at him as if to say, _Yeah, okay, now what the hell are __**you**__ staring at? _She lifted her hind leg to scratch behind her right ear, and then yawned like everything bored the hell out of her.

Coyote put his hand out, skritched the dog behind her left ear, and smiled a little as she whined like an overgrown puppy.

Several minutes later Coyote gently lowered Bobby Singer down onto the driver's side of his truck. Condie followed him outside as he carried Bobby out, and now she hovered around the older hunter, whining. She put her large black head on his knee and waited for him to open his eyes.

Coyote went back inside and pulled the Ilimu up on his feet. notDean was still unconscious, and Coyote held him upright while he studied the damned thing's face. It was a perfect copy. Just the thing to sucker Bobby in.

Or Sam. Or anybody else who knew Dean Winchester.

_Well…damn…that…was…fun…_

_Huh. What some people won't do to get out of doing some heavy lifting. __**Now**__ you wake up. We gotta work on your timing, eldest._

_I can…drive…now…_

_Take your time. Another couple of minutes won't matter. What about __**this**__ one? _Coyote's eyes flared up again, and yellow energy crackled around the fingers of his right hand.

_Don't. We can use the bastard._

_You got a plan? _

_Hell yeah. You remember watching Sesame Street, don't'cha?_

_Sesame Street? _Coyote frowned. Then he got the mental image Dean sent his way, and he smirked. _Hell yeah._

Less than two minutes later notDean was handcuffed and sat slumped on the pavement in front of Bobby's trunk. A newly formed binding link on the inside of notDean's right inside elbow made sure that even if he _did_ wake up, the bastard wasn't going anywhere.

The old man was still unconscious, and Dean was still disoriented, groggy, so Coyote decided to give him the time he needed to get back on his feet, so to speak.

The sight of that damned Ilimu had gotten Coyote thinking, which was_ never_ a good thing.

He stared intently at himself in the Impala's windshield, and he shook his head. Despite the light stubble on his jawline, despite that golden yellow glow in his eyes, he looked younger than Dean's 28 years. Back in the day, when he could shift into any form, any sex he ever wanted to, this one was the one human form he always came back to.

Always.

Maybe the hair was a little longer, sometimes he wore a beard, but it always came back to lightly freckled skin, wide green eyes, full lips, broad shoulders. He was beautiful like that, and he knew it. Even in his incarnation as a coyote he always kept some of the features recognizable – the shoulders, the eyes, those impossibly long eyelashes. Might have been shallow, but since it was his body, his shape, Coyote figured whatever he did with it wasn't anybody's damn business but his.

What was so different now was what was inside Dean's head. Coyote figured the Powers That Be had to have their little jokes, which was why they'd been paired together in the first place. The kid's life had been totally fucked up by the supernatural. On top of that, he's one hell of a demon hunter, and he hates supernatural beings with a passion, so hell, why not, let's put Coyote in there. It's a match made in heaven.

The Greater Good my ass.

The boy's heroism and bravery Coyote understood. The need for and devotion to family, sure. What Coyote just didn't get was the deep-seated inferiority Dean felt, even from before, when he thought he was just a "normal" human. He covered it up well, with all that snark, cockiness and bluster, but at the core the boy felt he was worthless, expendable, especially for his family, and that was something Coyote never would understand.

Demons Coyote got. Humans were just…crazy.

He could feel Dean rouse himself more fully. Coyote stared at himself for a moment longer, and he looked up when Bobby Singer stirred on the driver's side seat. Coyote rounded the front of the truck ---

_Gone dark…sorry…Dean, promised John I'd do this---_

It happened fast, faster than it even takes to tell it ---

Dean yelled inside Coyote's head, hoarse and desperate, just as Bobby pulled the sawed off shotgun out from underneath the seat. Coyote growled, low and deep and terrible, as he reached out with his mind to stop Bobby's heart.

Bobby cocked the shotgun, aimed it at Coyote's face and pulled the trigger.

_**Three**_

Azazel was inside Annie's body now, and she smiled as she held the metal collar up to the light. Breathtaking work, just breathtaking. One of a kind, tailor-made for Dean and Coyote. It had to call in some favors just to have it made, and once it was made it had to be cursed by that trio of witches. They'd had dealings with Coyote back in the day, and Azazel suspected some of_ that_ had been pretty personal, but that was okay; that was something it could use. Dealing with them had been a royal pain in its sometimes corporeal ass, but the end result was well worth it.

It was a shame what they'd done to that kidnapped family of four humans Azazel offered up as a sacrifice, but hey, you have to break some eggs in order to make omelets.

The metal gleamed a deep blackish-grey color underneath the overhead lights. The inscriptions engraved in each thorn from end to end were especially intricate, a cold silver color that caught the light and seemed to swallow it up.

Travis sat hunched over at the kitchen table. He looked tired, and even though the Demon had healed the gash in his shoulder he could still feel it. Phantom pain.

The pain of his nose seemed a little more real. It wasn't broken, so there wasn't anything to heal. And besides, he realized, the yellow eyed man probably didn't heal it because he wanted Travis to remember.

For as long as he lived Travis doubted he'd ever forget Dean. Or Sam.

"It's a party," the Demon smiled, and it let Annie out just enough to let her giggle. "Can't have a party without party favors."

Annie's twin, Aaron, sat cross-legged in the corner. His eyes were closed and he thumped his head repeatedly against the wall, keeping time with the beating of his heart. Aaron always got upset whenever Azazel possessed Annie instead of him. One of these days that kid was going to blow up at his twin sister, and that confrontation was going to be extremely interesting to watch.

Azazel pulled out a single thorn that was shorter, thicker than the rest. "Now Travis, this little beauty is the one I want you to use. The straight, thick part is the handle. Pointy side up, son. Remember that. And don't run through the house with it. It's not safe to do that with pointy objects. You could poke an eye out or something."

_**Four**_

Around the corner from the safe house Bobby Singer sat stiffly behind the wheel of his truck. Dean Winchester rode shotgun.

"Bobby, look, I'm…I'm sorry about this."

"Go to hell," Bobby grated out. He couldn't move, not unless Dean allowed it, but he could say _that_, at least. Dean drew the line at shutting him up completely.

He _did _make sure that Bobby kept his hands on the steering wheel where Dean could see them at all times.

"It's not what you think --- "

"No shit, Dean? _Really_? It's not what I think? I get a call from Sam, saying you're gone, you've been taken by something on a hunt, and when I get here I find not one, but two of you. The other bastard was bad enough, but he was just a low-life black eyed demon. _You_ show up with yellow eyes, doing things no normal human can do. What the hell am I supposed to think, Dean?"

"You wouldn't let me explain ---"

"I don't want to hear it. Sam's gone, and you're here, looking like_ this_. Did you make a deal with that yellow-eyed sumbitch to save Sam? You're first born. Did you just turn darkside all on your own?"

"I didn't --- " Dean shook his head. "I --- just --- forget it."

_You let him go, he'll shoot us. Kill us. _Coyote murmured darkly. _I'm not gonna allow that to happen. I stopped myself the last time, because you asked me to. Jammed up the gun, and not his heart. Next time I won't listen to you. _

"I'll…I'll release you after we get clear of this mess. After I get Sam out. I can't let you stop me from doing that, Bobby. I won't. I'm sorry about this. I really am." Dean sat there with his head down, miserable. He glanced out the back window at the huddled form lying under the tarp in the bed of the truck. Condie was already up. She stretched, jumped down and walked up front.

Dean turned towards the door, then turned back towards Bobby. "What did you mean when you said you promised my Dad?"

"Why don't you **make** me tell, you sumbitch?" Bobby snapped defiantly.

And God help him, there was a part of Dean, _not_ Coyote, that wanted to do just that. Wanted to apply a little more pressure, and that primitive part of Dean's brain knew exactly how much torture it would take to make Bobby scream out the information. Wanted to force Bobby to tell so badly it made Dean's head swim.

Dean exited the passenger seat and held the door open long enough for Condie to jump up on the seat beside Bobby. Dean closed the door and leaned down. Bobby glared at him. Dean looked the old man straight in the eyes, and he didn't try to conceal the faint yellow glow in the center of his pupils. There was no point in hiding that from Bobby anymore.

"So, that's it? You're just gonna leave me like this?"

Dean opened his mouth to say something, _anything_, he didn't know what, and finally he just slammed his hand down hard on the door and turned away. He shook his head, and the sound that came out of him was short, bitter, somewhere between a sob and a laugh. This was all jacked up. All of it.

…_place like this brings out the worst in our kind…_

Our kind? He didn't even know what that _was _anymore…

_**Five**_

Sam lay on the bed with his eyes closed, and the intruder inside his room stopped at the foot of the bed. Waiting.

He'd heard them moving around his room for a while. Scratching sounds. At one point it sounded like they'd climbed on top of that old dresser that was pushed up against the wall.

Sam heard movement, felt a hand on his arm, and he blocked the other hand that reached out for his neck. He felt his arm knocked away to the side, effortlessly, and then both arms were pinned down at his sides. He tried to arch his back, tried to buck whoever this was off, and it was no good. Nothing worked. That throbbing ache behind his eyes made it damned hard to concentrate, and his arms and legs felt heavy as lead.

Sam opened his eyes, expected to see Travis, with that ungodly yellow gleam in his eyes. Yellow-eyed Travis with a butcher knife in his hand, come to return the favor.

Wide green eyes looked down at Sam's startled hazel ones.

"D-Dean?"

Dean winked at him. "Gettin' a little rusty, aren't ya, kiddo? You bring shame upon our dojo, grasshopper," he added with mock sorrow.

"Dean!"

Dean very quickly jumped off the bed, took Sam's hand and pulled him to his feet.

"Yeah, Samantha, I'm damn glad to see you too." Sam lifted his arms a little, palms out, and Dean quirked an eyebrow at him. "Geez, dude, we're not gonna hug, are we?"

Sam hesitated, then thought better of it. He shook his head, but he couldn't stop grinning. He lowered his arms. "Ah…no."

"Not hugging is good. Okay." Dean slapped Sam on the shoulder as he looked around the room. "Let's see about getting you the hell out of here." Sam could see it on his face. Dean was already making split second decisions, what would be the quickest way out, what he would do if anyone got between them and the outside…

"Dean, there are other psychics here. Other '83 babies like me."

Dean frowned. "Yeah. Okay. So?" He turned and headed for the door.

"We can't leave them here."

Dean snorted. "Hell we can't, Sammy."

"They're psychics, just like me."

"They're not just like you. They're _his_." Dean scowled, stopped and turned back around. "They're_ evil_, Sam."

Sam spread his arms wide. "Then why don't you just shoot _me_ now and be done with it? I might go darkside any moment."

"That's – that's not what I meant, and you know it. You were _brought_ here. One of 'em almost killed you. _They _came here willingly." He turned around and glared at his brother. "Stop twisting my words around." Dean looked around furtively, lowered his voice. "Now is_ not _the time for this conversation. We gotta get outta here before ---"

"Before what, Dean? Before what?" Maureen said. She stood in the the doorway, her eyes a blaze of murky yellow. "Before Sam can figure out that you're not human any more?"

Dean froze. "Shut your mouth, bitch."

Maureen shook her head. "And here I went to all this trouble fixing you dinner. I sent out the party invitations, and put the good china out on the table." She shook her head ruefully. "You young folks nowadays just don't appreciate what goes into preparing a good sit down dinner like Mama used to make." Maureen's yellow eyes gleamed with amusement. "Oh, no, wait, was that _before_ or _after _I torched dear mother Mary on the ceiling of Sammy's nursery?"

Dean growled deep in his throat then, and started towards Maureen with his right hand balled up into a fist. Sam reached out, grabbed his brother by the right bicep and spun him around to face him.

"Dude, think about it. That's exactly what it wants you to do---" Sam stopped and stared at his brother in shock.

Dean jerked underneath Sam's touch. He backed up, glaring at Sam. Sam tightened his grip, and actually leaned forward, frowning.

There was a golden glint in the center of Dean's eyes. It was yellow, a purer, cleaner yellow than the Demon's.

"Dean?" Sam whispered softly. He looked horribly young, vulnerable. "Dean, who else is in there with you?"

Dean leaned back, away from Sam. Dean looked like a trapped animal, his breath quickening in his chest.

"Ah, the legendary Winchester angst," the Demon said. "I think you boys need a time out." The pain in Sam's head suddenly tripled, quadrupled, blinding him. He sunk to his knees, and the last thing he saw was Dean already lying on the floor, that yellow glow in his eyes flickering, fading, just before the room swum lazily around Sam and everything darkened from grey to blessed pitch blackness.

>>

I've already made arrangements to post the next chapter on Wednesday from a computer that I trust. Of course, you may have to bribe me to get me to post it. Y'all know what to do…


	19. Chapter 19 Sleight of Hand

A/N: deansdreamingangel wins at life by bribing me with a day with Dean, which is not to say that I don't appreciate the other bribes both in the reviews and the private emails.

Thank you all!

As always, italics indicates thought, and in this chapter, flashbacks.

Well, the people have spoken, so here it is, as promised, the latest chapter in this horror/angst-fest.

Oh wait, I gotta say this:

Disclaimer: Don't own 'em, darn it. (There, Kripke, ya happy now?)

This chapter contains: plenty of angst, violence, cussing, weirdness, heck you know the rest, else you wouldn't even be reading this thing.

And now, one of the three last remaining Ilimu (the one inside Hank Darrow's body, last seen in Chapter 11 – Nine Kinds of Crazy) decides to try his luck against Bobby Singer, and for the main event, the war between YED and Dean, Coyote and Sam Winchester begins. Place your bets, please, 'cause not everybody's gonna walk away from this one…

**Dog Eat Dog**

**Chapter 19 Sleight of Hand**

**One**

_It hadn't been your usual conversation, the kind a father would have about his children. From his front porch Bobby sat and watched twenty five year old Dean Winchester pop the hood of the Impala and reach in with practiced, sure fingers. Kid was a natural around cars. Bobby would have been damned glad to have Dean work for him. Hell, he would have gone into business with him in a heartbeat. _

_It was a bright spring day, not a cloud in the sky, and Bobby sat on the porch with John Winchester, talking about Dean, and Sam, and death._

_John leaned forward on the porch swing, clasped his broad hands together. He looked tired, and the three day growth of beard only made him look even more fatigued. "If Dean ever goes dark, Bobby, and…and I'm not around…I'd appreciate it if you would do me this favor."_

_Bobby nodded. It was best not to say it too often, or too loud. Doing that would give form to the idea, make it come true. Hunters were superstitious, sometimes with good reason._

_Besides, you never knew what was listening out there._

"_I'm not sure Sam could do it. Would do it. He's gone to college. Doubt he's coming back," John said hoarsely, "not…not after the fight we had the last time. Dean's first born. That's the thing," John frowned as he rubbed his hands together. "He's first born. The damn thing has passed over him, and I don't know why."_

Bobby remembered the presence that pushed its way into his head and body. It was rough at first, angry, and he could have sworn he heard snarling, growling. It was hard to breathe and he felt pressure around his heart, pressure that took his breath away. His entire body froze, and then the hold on him loosened up. He could breathe again, but he was caught. Held fast. His body was no longer his own, and he felt the shotgun drop from his nerveless fingers to the ground.

Dean stared at him with those wild yellow eyes of his, and the expression on the young man's face softened, changed from angry to remorseful.

_John, _Bobby thought,_ wherever you are, maybe there was a pretty damn good reason why that yellow eyed bastard passed over Dean in the first place. Because after what I saw, I'm pretty sure he's not alone in there._

Bobby moved his head slightly, glanced up at the sigil he'd sketched days before in the roof of the truck's cab._ And whatever else is in there with him, it's not demonic._

Otherwise, the sigil of St. Vladimir of St. Petersburg would have fried Dean's insides while he sat in the truck.

_**Two **_

"Wake up, Sammy," Dean said cheerfully. "I want you awake for this part."

"Five more minutes," Sam mumbled sleepily. He turned over in bed, onto his stomach, burrowed even deeper into his pillow face first.

"Don't have five minutes," Dean said casually. "I'll be gone in two."

Sam wasted twenty seconds just lying there, and then it hit him.

Dean.

Gone.

An image of Dean, backing away from him, like an animal trapped in a snare, came to Sam then, but the image didn't hurt and it wasn't a vision, it was a friggin' memory, for God's sake, and that was enough to make Sam jerk upright from the pillow.

The headache he'd had was gone.

That pit in his stomach wasn't.

"That's a good boy," Maureen cooed. "Why don't you come on over here, Sam, and say hello to your brothers."

Maureen Reddington stood about five feet away from the bed, and Sam had to admit that being possessed by the Demon suited her. Like Travis, her features became a lot more animated when the damn thing was inside her. Her posture was straighter, her movements surer, more confident. Sam slowly turned over, wearily put his feet down on the floor, and the smile she flashed at him was wicked, bright, supremely confident.

Dean sat cross-legged on the floor beside her.

They'd removed his leather jacket, and his protection amulet. As confident as Maureen looked, Dean's body language was submissive. "Do with me as thou wilt" immediately came to Sam's mind, from the slumped set of Dean's shoulders, to the way he bowed his head, kept his half–open eyes on the floor. His hands lay limply in his lap. He looked broken, defeated, and at that moment Sam wanted to strangle the life out of Maureen, innocent or not.

"Oh, I've had my eye on _this_ one for a long time now." She threaded her fingers in Dean's short hair, lifted his chin up and back, and his head rolled loosely on his shoulders, back and forth. His eyes were blank, distant. That yellow glint in the center of his eyes could have easily been mistaken as highlights from the lighting in the house, but Sam knew better.

Maureen smiled. "When I heard that he stole fire from those idiots on that mountaintop, so that Mankind could survive winter, I took an interest in him then. All that power, all that cunning, and he wastes it making sure that some meatsuit stays warm in the cold and dark. Go figure."

Her lip curled in distaste, and she moved her hand slightly. Dean's head copied the motion in a slow circle. "What a waste of all that potential. He laughed at me the first time I approached him. He's a stubborn bastard, but you know that, don't you, Sammy? Heh. Second time wasn't so funny. And you know what? Hundreds of years ago, the few times I saw him as a human, sometimes he looked just like your brother. One reason why the Powers That Be put him in this body, I guess. Just one more bit of irony."

Maureen ran her fingers down the side of Dean's neck, and he flinched away from her touch.

"…nuh…nuhhh…"

"It's okay, it's all right. I've got you, boy. I've got you…"

The phony sympathetic tone in her voice made Sam want to hurt her even more.

"Been keeping tabs on the boys ever since Coyote came out, and tonight they had themselves a breakthrough," Maureen drawled. Sam couldn't suppress the shudder that clawed its way down his spine. Maureen spoke in the same whiskey smooth drawl he'd heard coming out of his father's mouth in that backwoods cabin over a year ago.

Maureen grinned that same bright, damnable grin. "They work well together, for the most part. Been acting like blood brothers or somethin'. You know what the ironic part is? He's been honest with your brother. Dean should feel flattered, Sammy. That's the most honest this particular critter has ever been to anybody. Ever."

Sam stared past Maureen, stared at the boarded up window behind her.

He concentrated on one of the nails, felt with his mind how tightly the damn thing was embedded in the wood. He didn't know if he could do it, but he tried it anyway.

The nail turned, one whole revolution, and the wood around it loosened slightly.

_**Three**_

The red Ford F-150 pulled up behind him, and Bobby's heart gave a small jump inside his chest. Condie turned around, pricked her ears, and stared out the back window. The dog flattened her ears and growled, a low threatening sound, as if Bobby didn't know that he was screwed already.

On the way over to this place he'd seen car wrecks, and overturned tractor trailers. He'd seen police cruisers standing by the side of the road with their Christmas tree racks flashing and the doors open.

The only thing that was missing was people.

Live people. He hadn't seen any.

The place was a graveyard. Corpses sat upright behind steering wheels, sat slumped over in back seats. Lay sprawled out on the pavement, their guts spilled out onto the cold grey concrete. It was only a ten minute drive, but during that short space of time Bobby had seen more death than he'd ever seen during two tours of tour over in Korea.

Wholesale slaughter didn't even begin to cover _this_.

Bobby could hear the door of the red pick up truck open and close, and it was such an ordinary sound. It made his insides tighten up. It was one thing to die on a hunt, to go down fighting in a blaze of glory. To die like this frozen, helpless, that was about the worst thing Bobby could imagine.

He managed to turn his head slightly, just enough to look down in the rear view mirror.

The man walking up from behind was young, with a broad face and body. Looked like a factory worker. Blue jeans, work boots. Ordinarily Bobby wouldn't have given him a second look.

Kid was Joe Sixpack.

With pitch black eyes.

_**Four**_

Maureen moved her hand, and Dean's head and neck rolled loosely.

"What…what do you need Dean for? I thought this was all about me," Sam said hoarsely. His throat was so dry it hurt.

And he gave the nail one more turn.

"You sound a little peeved, there, Sammy. Don't wanna share the spotlight with your big brother?"

Sam frowned. "You said it before. He's nothing."

"Oh, really?" Maureen grinned. "Is this the part where you tell me that whatever I need, I can get it from you?"

"Pretty much." Sam shrugged.

"Sorry, Sammy. No sale. I have you boys' best interests at heart, I really do. After all this time I really do feel like you're family to me, and with John AWOL, as usual, it's up to me to take up the slack, to provide guidance to you wayward boys. Dean's been hiding what he is all this time, and I'm just doing him a favor. This won't be the first time your boy and his dog have gone dark, and right now I need him dark. He's forgotten more dark magic than a lot of these critters out here can ever remember. I wanna learn how to generate lightning that will pierce the heavens above. I want to learn how to sicken my enemies and influence people into toeing the bottom line. **My **bottom line. And speaking of which, you can stop now."

"Stop what?"

"Now, Sam. How fucking stupid do you think I am? You think I'd give you a loaded weapon you could use against me? Doesn't work that way, boy. You already took a butcher knife to poor Travis, and now you're planning on putting a nail through Maureen's head." It clucked its tongue, shook its head in mock disgust, then Maureen smiled slyly. "Damn, I'm proud of you, boy! You've come a long way!"

Sam felt cold inside. He jerked his mind away from the nail as if touching the damn thing burned him.

Maureen tucked Dean's head against the side of her thigh and idly ran her fingers through his hair. "After this you won't be able to hide what you are, either. Normal just isn't an option for you anymore either, kiddo. Think about your future. Big brother is too fractured to help you now," Maureen snarled as she gripped Dean's short hair tightly, painfully. Dean whimpered as she tilted his head roughly over to one side. "Look at him. He used to_ be_ something."

"Dude, I still am," a familiar voice said serenely.

Sam jumped, startled.

Dean leaned against the doorway and winked at the Demon. "What up, bitch?"

Maureen's yellow eyes grew wide, and that murky yellow color deepened. Dean clicked his tongue, shook his head in mock admiration as Sam turned, gaped at him in pure shock.

"Boy, they make a cute couple," Dean smirked. " 'Specially the guy."

_**Six**_

Bobby could smell the sulfur oozing off the dude's skin as he leaned down and stared into the truck. The windows were rolled up more than halfway, so he couldn't reach in, but there was nothing to stop the bastard from just smashing the glass and reaching inside., or just reaching around through the smashed windshield. The man's eyes were a deep bottomless black that shone in the streetlights, and he licked his lips as he looked inside the truck.

Bobby cursed. He tried to move. His fingers twitched a little on the steering wheel.

The thing's eyes lit up when it saw Condie. She sat with her back up against the passenger side door. Her lips were drawn back in a silent snarl, her ears pinned back against her head.

"Nice dog," the demon grated, and its smile was cold and hungry. "Nice dog, old man."

_**Seven**_

Maureen snarled. Her skin seemed to darken, even as those yellow eyes of hers flared up. She pulled notDean's head back by the hair and glared at him. notDean stared back at her, blindly, and his dull green eyes faded into pitch black. Maureen cursed, and released her hold on him, and he slumped bonelessly to the floor.

The Demon turned and glared at Dean, and Dean's smirk got wider. He wordlessly pointed upwards.

Sam looked up.

The sigil on the ceiling over the bed had changed. Symbols had been added. Sam recognized some of it as Latin, What the rest of it was he didn't have a clue.

Maureen turned, took a step towards Dean, and stopped short as though she'd run into a brick wall.

Sam sat there frozen in shock.

Dean pushed off from the door frame. "Well, guess the show's over, huh? Sammy, you ready to go?"

Sam just sat there, staring at him.

"Uh, dude? Right now?" Dean quirked an eyebrow at him. "Sometime this year _would _be nice."

Sam got up slowly, carefully. Maureen glared at him with sullen yellow eyes as he skirted the edges of the sigil.

Sam ignored her. He approached Dean warily, as if this was all just another trick, a trap.

"Dean – is that really you?"

"Hell yeah. You've got only one awesome big brother, Sam."

"Then – who the hell is that?" Sam turned glanced at notDean lying on the floor at Maureen's feet.

Dean shrugged. "Ilimu. Pretended he was me. Wanted to draw you out. Hooked Bobby instead."

"Bobby's here?"

"Yeah."

"How'd you control him like that?"

"Spellwork. Used one of Bobby's amulets," Dean lied. "You done with the twenty questions, dude? We gotta go."

"You…you tricked him."

"Damn right I did." Dean stared past Sam at Maureen. Stared at her hard, and the Demon made Maureen's lips turn up in a slight grin.

"So…it's true then."

Dean looked wary as he glanced up at Sam. "What's true?"

"It said you were the host for the Trickster Coyote. Said you were ensouled with the damned thing."

Dean felt a pit form in his stomach.

"Come on, man. It's a damn demon." Dean scowled. "That mouth ain't no prayer book, Sam." Dean reached out and touched his brother on the arm. "We gotta go. Now."

Sam stepped back, out of reach. Dean stared at him in shock. Sam looked pissed off, confused. "I'm not going anywhere with you until you tell me what the hell is going on with you. I saw you change into that coyote, Dean. I saw it. You controlled that thing somehow, and it wasn't with any spell, either. Don't play me, Dean. Stop lying to me."

"Dude, do you really wanna have this conversation in front of that damn thing?" Dean was surprised how calm his voice was.

_You'll have to push him,_ Coyote whispered. _You'll have to __**make**__ him leave with us. You can apologize to him later. He'll get over it. He'll live. Come on, niño. We gotta leave this place._

"Sam, please," Dean shook his head. "Don't make me---"

"Don't make you? Don't make you _what_, Dean?"

Just the sound of Sam's voice, that pissy face of his, suddenly pissed Dean off. _After all I've done, everything we've gone through, and he doesn't trust me. Won't even do what I ask him to, when I want him to. _

_The hell with this._

A slight yellow flicker in Dean's eyes, and Sam stiffened as Dean reached inside him. Sam's features relaxed, and his hands dropped to his sides.

_Finally,_ Dean thought. _That's one way to shut him up._

Maureen stood underneath the sigil grinning like a maniac.

Dean stepped around Sam. "What the hell are you staring at, freak?"

"My little boy has finally grown up." Maureen sniffed noisily as she pretended to fight back tears. "Oh, you kids grow up so fast. I don't even have any photos for the baby album."

"I'm not your damn little boy."

"Feeling a little dark these days, Dean? A little angry? Do you feel that Sam doesn't appreciate everything you've done for him? I'm not reading your mind, Deanie. You're just that fucking obvious."

Dean laughed humorlessly. "Speaking of obvious, where'd you stash the Colt?"

Maureen stopped grinning. "The – the what?"

"The special Colt? The gun you took from my Dad in the hospital?"

"Think I'm going to tell you?" it snarled. Images ran through its mind, and Dean smiled as the last image floated up to the surface.

"Yeah. You already did."

It stared. "You can't do that. You can't---"

"I just did." Dean smiled and stepped back. He raised his right arm, and yellow energy crackled between his fingers. His hand filled with the special Colt, Samuel Colt's weapon. Fear No Evil. Snatched from the Demon's hiding place, an abandoned farmhouse out on the Kansas plains.

Azazel cocked Maureen's head to one side. "It's becoming easier for you, isn't it, Dean? The way you treated Sam is pretty cold. Didn't see that one coming. You put the whammy on that old hunter --- Bobby Singer, wasn't it? Friend of the family. He's been like a father figure to you boys since John left, hasn't he?"

"_You _took my Dad. Murdered him. And my Mom---

"And now you're going to kill an innocent." The Demon ignored him. "Maureen didn't have anything to do with what happened to your family."

"She's here with you," Dean said flatly. "That bitch is no innocent."

"Stuck underneath this sigil like this, it's like shooting fish in a barrel. Not very sporting of you, Dean. I don't have a chance this way, do I?"

"You've got about as much chance as you gave our mom, you son of a bitch."

"Fair enough. But before you pull the trigger, I think you ought to consider this…" Maureen pulled a small penknife from the side pocket of her dress. She smiled at Dean as she unfolded it.

Dean frowned. Didn't make any sense. None of it did, not even when the Demon made Maureen plunge the blade of the knife into her right arm.

Behind him, Dean heard Sam groan out loud. He turned towards his brother, just in time to see Sam clutch at his right arm. Blood ran down Sam's arm from the same place Maureen stabbed herself.

Dean swung back around, snapped the Colt back up, aimed right between Maureen's eyes. She pulled the knife back out and licked the blood off the razor-sharp steel.

Dean turned around and stared at Sam, wide eyed. A trickle of blood ran down from the corner of Sam's mouth. He stared back at Dean, his eyes stricken, wide with disbelief.

Dean's aim with the Colt wavered.

"So, what are you gonna do, shoot me?" the thing laughed. It grinned, wide and bloody. "You hurt me, you hurt Sammy. Geez, Dean, you should see the look on your face. I like the boy and all, don't get me wrong, but I gotta do what I gotta do."

And the knife came down again.

>> 

A/N: I stole the idea of Dean and Coyote using notDean as a handpuppet (Dean's "Sesame Street" reference last chapter) from "The Dark Phoenix Saga", in which Jean Grey (Phoenix) does basically the same thing to a Hellfire Club guard.


	20. Chapter 20 Collateral Damage

A/N - This chapter contains angst, violence, cussing, weirdness, hurt!CoyoteDean, hurt!Sam, Protective!Sam, vengeful!Bobby.

I want to thank everyone who's reviewed, all the lurkers, and I am very flattered and humbled by the folks who have put this story on their alert lists, and their favorite story lists. You guys continue to amaze me by your interest in this twisted little tale.

I wanted to post this relatively short chapter (well, relatively short for_ me_, that is) as a teaser for the main event coming up.

**Dog Eat Dog**

**Chapter 20 – Collateral Damage**

**One**

The Ilimu inside Hank Darrow's body walked around to the front of the truck. Condie growled at it, low and deep and dangerous, but that wasn't what was keeping the damn thing back. Bobby watched it, saw the frown on the damned thing's face, the confused look in those hellish black eyes, and he realized that the sumbitch just didn't know what to make what it was seeing. Couldn't understand why Bobby was just sitting there, in a truck with the windshield completely smashed out, with the side windows rolled up more than halfway.

It looked around, up and down the street. Looked up at the houses, looked around as if it thought that a gang of hunters might jump out at it any second now. It circled the truck like a shark circling an unfamiliar object. It was cautious, and Bobby knew that wouldn't last long.

And if it managed to drag him out of the truck, neither would he.

_**Two**_

"One, two, three, four, please sir can I have some more…" The Demon sang out with each thrust as it made Maureen stab herself in the belly.

Aiming the Colt at the damned thing was useless, but Dean did it anyway for a few more seconds as he backed up. He slipped the Colt back underneath his jacket with his right hand, reached out and grasped Sam by the front of his jacket with his left.

Maureen's grip on the penknife was extremely strong, despite the fact that her fingers were slippery with her own blood. Her muscles trembled against the force of Dean's mind on the downward stroke. The strain of holding her in place without injuring Sam any further was murderous. The tip of the knife jittered in the air over her stomach as she gripped the handle with both hands.

Keeping Sam upright on his feet, holding his wounds closed and immobilizing that yellow eyed fuck with his mind, doing all that in opposite directions, was like trying to pat his head with his right hand and rub his stomach with his left hand at the same time. Ironically enough that was one of the earliest training exercises that Dad had put Dean through. He was seven years old and he'd thought it was damned stupid at the time.

The front of her denim dress was drenched in blood, from her stomach to the hem. The Demon leaned over, grinning, and those yellow eyes never left Dean's face. Dean finally wrestled the penknife away, sent it flying into the far wall where it embedded itself up to the hilt.

He couldn't even shut it up for fear that he'd hurt Sam.

"Come on Dean, make up your mind, will 'ya?" Azazel rolled those murky yellow eyes. Maureen's body shook as Dean forced her up and back. "What's a little collateral damage among friends, huh? A moment ago you didn't have any problem forcing yourself on Sam. Now you're trying to stop _me_ from having my way with him? You're going all Sybil on me, dude."

Dean pulled her arms out to the sides, much more gently than he ever wanted to. Her heels barely touched the floor as he dragged her backwards, finally pressed her back into the wall, next to the boarded-up window. She was still underneath the sigil, so it wasn't like the bitch was going to come at them.

_Sammy…Oh, God, what the hell did I do…_

Dean took a quick glance behind, at Sam, and he was still on his feet, clutching at his bloody shirt and jacket with both hands. That was the good news. The bad news was that Sam was staring right at him. He hadn't gone deaf, and he wasn't struck blind, or stupid. Sam had heard every word that was said. He'd seen everything. Dean saw the trapped, angry look in Sam's eyes, and damn, Dean couldn't hate himself any more than he already did right now. First Bobby, which was bad enough, and now Sam. Anything Coyote might have said, no matter how reasonable it might have sounded, wasn't going to make any freakin' difference.

Which was probably the reason the Old Man was quiet for once.

Sam actually flinched a little when Dean let go of his jacket collar and turned around to face him. Sam was frozen in place. He couldn't step back, and he couldn't move away. The cut in his arm still bled as Dean pushed Sam's shaggy dark hair out of his eyes with both hands. Dean held his younger brother's face in his hands, and for a moment they just stood there like that.

"Dean?" Sam's voice was quiet. He looked and sounded very young. "Is it --- is it true?"

"Sam, I---"

"Is it true? Did you do something to Bobby? To me, just then? Is that why I can't move?"

"Dude, you're bleeding, you shouldn't be moving around anyway---"

"Is it true about Coyote?"

Dean looked away from Sam, stared at the floor. Dean's face was calm, deceptively blank, the only movement a slight muscle twitch in his jaw.

When he raised his head again he looked directly at Sam, and he didn't even have to say the words.

_You know what you saw before, Sam. Do I have to say it out loud?_

"Are you –are you really mad at me?" Sam said haltingly. "Do you hate me because I fucked everything up?"

"You…what?" It was rare when Dean was shocked speechless; this was definitely one of those times.

"I lost you, Dean. After all the years you spent taking care of me, I fucked up it when it was my turn to take care of you. I'm not good at that like you are." The words came out of Sam in a slurred, broken jumble. "You were sick, and….and you were hurting, and I wanted to take care of you, wanted to protect you, and I couldn't even do that right…None of this would have happened to you if it hadn't been for me…"

"You listen to me. You_ listen_, all right?" Dean said fiercely. "I don't know where you're getting all these crazy ass ideas from. None of this is your fault, Sam. You hear me? None of this is your fault."

Sam didn't answer, and he didn't look very convinced, either.

Dean let out the breath he'd been holding, and tilted his head slightly to one side as he looked Sam in the eye. Dean's pupils lightened to that golden yellow glow.

Sam's eyes widened, focused on Dean's face.

Dean let Sam in.

Not _all_ the way in. This was still Dean Winchester, macho jerk extraordinaire, and damn proud of it. But he opened the door, just a crack. Sam was nearly overwhelmed by the sense of Dean's essence. There was violence, and darkness, and a barely contained rage at times, at the world, at the Demon, at the unfairness of it all. But at the core there was Dean's love for his family, for Mary, John, and Sam.

A quick succession of images snapped and surged behind Sam's eyes. Six month old Sam lying in a crib at Jim Murphy's rectory, and four year old Dean climbing into the crib, curling himself protectively around the baby. The times John Winchester was away on a hunt, Dean caring for Sam, making sure he was fed, taken care of. Dean reading Sam the same damn fairy tale over and over again, and even though Dean told the same story over and over again, he never got tired of telling it, because Sam wanted to hear it. The first official dirty joke Dean told Sam when Sam reached thirteen ("Today you are a man, dude."). Fast forward to the hunts later on, Dean willingly putting himself between Sam and the fugly they were hunting, worrying himself sick whenever Sam got hurt, cursing himself for not moving fast enough. The nights Dean stayed awake when Sam's visions started, nearly hating himself for being unable to take Sam's pain away...

_Hate you? Hell no. Where'd you get that dumbass idea from, Sammy? You play the hand you're dealt, little brother. I believe that. I do. Whatever happened to me is not your fault. I said I'd come for you. I came. I said I'd keep you safe, get you out of this Godforsaken place, and I meant that too. Nothing bad's gonna happen to you while I'm around._

_And I hope you enjoyed this chick flick moment, young Skywalker, 'cause it'll be a cold day in hell before you get another one._

Dean gently pushed Sam's hands away from his stomach, lifted his bloody shirt and jacket up. Dean's face tightened up a little as he saw all the blood on Sam's skin, saw four deep cuts in Sam's stomach, where the damn demon had rammed the penknife into Maureen up to the hilt, and then twisted the blade.

Sam made a noise somewhere between a startled gasp and a pain-filled groan as Dean spread his hands, palms down, against Sam's bare belly. A warm tingling sensation washed through Sam like a wave, from head to toe. He stared, wide eyed, as the blood flowed back into his body, and the cuts closed up. His mouth stopped bleeding, as did that deep cut in his arm.

Dean pulled his hands away. He released his hold on Sam altogether. Sam wobbled a little, but he stood on his own two damn feet, and that was better than good enough.

"Wh -- what the hell was_ that_?" He pulled his shirt up, practically goggled at the smooth unbroken skin he saw there now. "Dean, what did --- what did you do --- "

Dean shook his head as he backed up. He wouldn't force Sam to follow him. And he wouldn't explain. Not yet. Not in front of that damned thing. Not in _this_ place.

Dean stepped back, towards the door, and Sam followed him on his own, just like Dean figured he would. Dean could see the worry and concern and even fear (_of him? for him?_) on Sam's face, but that didn't stop Sam from following him.

And maybe, just maybe, Sam wouldn't leave later on because of what he saw.

_That's it, come on, follow me outside, please Sam, come on… _

Dean glanced past Sam. notDean still lay sprawled on the floor. The bitch was right where he'd left her. Still pinned, still grinning bloodily, only…

A ripple of warning ran down Dean's spine. Coyote snarled inside his head –

_--- watch your back, damn it, boy, watch your---_

_**Three**_

"Tricky, old man. Tricky meatsuit." The demon's voice was rough from disuse. Bobby figured this one wasn't much for people skills. There had probably been a lot of accidents on the highway that were caused by this particular fugly, accidents that were probably chalked up to road rage.

Bobby hadn't moved from that spot, didn't seem to be any one else around. It circled back towards the driver's side of the truck. Condie tracked him with her eyes, but the dog was conflicted. She couldn't understand why Bobby just sat there, either, couldn't understand why he hadn't said anything to her.

The demon jumped up onto the step of the truck, right next to Bobby, only instead of breaking the side window it reached around through the smashed windshield.

Bobby didn't even have time to blink.

The fingers of that large hand penetrated the space of the truck's cab, reached in past the rear view mirror. Condie growled so low and deep she seemed to vibrate, but she didn't move forward. Bobby took a deep breath, but he wouldn't close his eyes. He saw the thing's fingertips shrivel up, right down to the bone. White bone blackened, then turned to a fine grey ash.

The Ilimu let out a yelp of pain and jerked backwards. It had lost half its right arm, up to the elbow, and that was only the beginning.

It shrieked, threw itself away from the truck, but the damage was done. The immolation continued, traveled up its arm, Bobby closed his eyes, thanked God that he'd followed his mind and drawn the sigil of St. Vladimir on the inside roof of his truck's cab before he'd headed out to Vashon from South Dakota several days before. It was one of those things that could either save you or bite you on the ass later on.

The Ilimu writhed on the ground as the fire of St. Vladimir consumed it. Back in Russia, way way back in the day, St. Vladimir was strictly old school whenever he conducted an exorcism. If he saved a person from demonic possession, the person usually died and went to heaven, while the demon was destroyed.

So much for that old time religion.

_**Four**_

_Got something for ya, Sammy, you and your fucking brother..._

Sam saw a flicker of movement behind Dean, a ghost image with sunken dark eyes, longish hair hanging over his forehead, mouth stretched in a nasty, malicious smirk---

"Travis?" Sam didn't even realize he'd spoken out loud.

Dean turned around, moved fluidly like a cat twisting inside its skin. Dean reached out the same time Travis did and Travis actually laughed.

_Stupid bastard._ No one could touch him when he ghosted. _No one._

From over Dean's shoulder Sam saw Travis' body jerk forward, saw his mouth form a perfect O of surprise. Sam stepped up beside Dean, leaned over his shoulder and stared down.

Dean had something in his right hand, and it took Sam a second or two to realize that Dean held Travis' intangible heart, still beating, in his hand.

Sam stared.

Travis stared. Stared down at the dark hollow hole in his chest.

Sam glanced sideways at Dean, and Dean looked serene, golden eyed, as he stared back at Travis.

From behind them Azazel brayed with laughter. "How d'ya like your boy _now_, Sammy?"

Travis stood there, his hands clutching at his chest, his eyes wide with disbelief, and as Sam watched he just came apart at the seams, his body dissolving into wisps of grayish white vapor.

The fingers of Dean's right hand twitched. The heart in his hand was a reverse shadow image, and Dean stared at it with a slightly wide-eyed, confused look on his face. The heart faded away just like Travis did. Sam could see some kind of flush, a fever, spread underneath Dean's skin, and when he started to turn towards Sam Dean wobbled a little on his feet.

There was something sticking out of Dean's chest, right over his heart. Dean frowned as he looked down at the front of his jacket. He raised his right hand, pulled his jacket away so he could look at it.

It looked organic, like a fucking oversized thorn or something, but this thing was a monstrosity, about an inch and a half in diameter, curved and sharp, smooth at one end, almost black, with silver markings all over. The top half was embedded in Dean's chest, up to the hilt, and the damn thing pulsed. It got lighter in color, shriveled up even as Sam watched, and he was pretty sure that wasn't a good thing.

"Come on, Sam…we…gotta…go…" Dean said faintly. He brushed at the damn thing with numb, suddenly clumsy fingers. Dean took a step forward, and as he stumbled Sam was right there next to him. As he wrapped his arms around him Sam could feel the heat rising in Dean's skin. They sank to the floor together in slow motion, the side of Dean's head resting against Sam's chest. Sam grabbed the handle of the thorn, and his skin crawled at the slick feel of the thing against his skin. He was damned if he did, damned if he didn't. Leave the damned thing in, and let it continue to do God only knew what to Dean, or pull it out and let Dean bleed to death.

Sam wondered exactly when he started thinking that bleeding to death was a more attractive alternative and he pulled the thorn out, flung it into a far corner. Dean didn't even flinch.

The hole it left didn't bleed very much.

Dean stared blankly at Sam. "S – Sam--my?" he breathed hoarsely.

"It's all right, Dean, it's okay." Sam put Dean's arm around his shoulders, and Sam struggled to his feet. Dean stumbled and staggered, and for once Sam was glad he was taller, bigger. It was deju fucking vu all over again, they were back in McCoy Indiana, only they weren't. Seemed like someone had hit the rewind button. Dean's breathing hitched and rattled in his throat, and then he shuddered, and his eyes rolled up into his head. Dean was suddenly dead weight in Sam's arms. Sam slid one hand up, checked his vitals. Dean's pulse was slow; he trembled when Sam touched him. All Sam could think of was that they had to get out of this damn place, get out of the house, find Bobby.

Sam heard movement behind him, and he glanced backward just as Maureen pushed her body off the wall. Apparently with Dean unconscious everything he had influence over was released. Sam hoped that included Bobby, hoped like hell that freezing Bobby in place was the only thing Dean had done.

The damned thing inside Maureen's body grinned, it fucking never stopped grinning, and that made Sam so angry that he pushed out at her with his mind, picked her up and slammed her back into the wall so hard the drywall cratered.

It was slow going towards the door. He put one arm around Dean's waist and half lifted, half-carried him out. Sam didn't even really remember how to get to the front door, but he didn't get lost and it was as if some sixth sense guided him. He could hear movement behind him, and if any of those sumbitches showed their faces Sam was not going to be responsible for his actions.

And God help any of them if they got between him and Dean and that front door.

No one did.

Cracks appeared in the foundation of the house, travelled up the walls, into the ceiling. The boarded up windows rattled and shook, then the window frames blew apart. Every single piece of furniture in the place fell apart. Wooden floorboards curled up like strips of damp paper, and Sam was barely aware that he was the cause. Every door in the house split in two, right down the middle. Nails shot out of the boards and embedded themselves in the opposite walls. The boards fell from the windows. Parts of the walls cratered, then crumbled.

Sam had enough presence of mind not to pancake the floors one on top of another. That would have gone a little too far, and he was still mindful that the twins were probably somewhere still in the house, and Maureen was too, even though she was currently occupied by that yellow-eyed sumbitch.

He had to take his frustration and anger out on something.

Sam didn't even bother trying the front doorknob with his hand. The door split down the middle and the hinges separated from the frame, and Sam stepped through, half-carrying Dean beside him, and damn, being outside should have made him feel better, but it didn't.

The sky was the wrong color, a weird looking dark maroon color, and the moon was _too_ bright, like bleached bone. It rode low and bloated in the sky overhead. They were in a residential area, tree lined streets, cars at the curb, and it all seemed normal enough, that is if you could ignore the sulfur smell in the air and this weird vibration Sam could feel in the air. Sam didn't notice that the concrete steps to the house rippled as he set foot on them. He was so focused on getting Dean out that they didn't stop until they were on the sidewalk, and then everything stopped.

"Noooo." Dean raised his head, pushed feebly at Sam, tried to back up. His voice sounded wilder, rougher, almost a growl. Sam glanced down at his brother and felt freezing cold grip his insides. Dean's eyes were ablaze with that yellow light. Sam immediately had an overwhelming sense of Otherworldliness that made his skin tingle.

This wasn't Dean. This was Coyote.

"He walled me up. All those years," and Coyote shook his head, bewildered, his eyes glazed with pain and fever as he looked up at Sam. "Walled me up because of you."

"Sam?"

Sam turned around slowly. Bobby Singer stood there on the sidewalk with a shotgun in his hands. Sam smiled warmly for the first time in what seemed like weeks. "Hey, Bobby—"

He stopped smiling when Bobby raised the shotgun at him.

Bobby didn't smile back. He looked grim, tired, and thoroughly pissed off. "Sam, get away from him."

"Gonna…kill us," Coyote muttered brokenly. His head lolled against Sam's shoulder. "Never…should have…listened...to the boy…."

Sam took a step back. "I'm not going to let you hurt him, Bobby."

"Sam?" Bobby looked back at the house just as both halves of the front door lazily fell to the ground. "Did…did you do that?"

Sam's eyes narrowed. "I'm not going to let you hurt him." Coyote slumped quietly against him, his breathing hoarse and raspy. Sam tightened his arm around Coyote's waist.

Bobby seemed to reconsider when he saw those shadows in Sam's eyes. He shrugged, lowered the shotgun back down at his side. "My truck's parked around the corner."

Bobby stuck his hand out. "Come on, let me help you with him."

Sam let his guard down. Bobby was a friend, the only other person in the world he could trust on a hunt, besides Dean. It was a mistake, he was tired, and he didn't even have time to react.

Bobby stepped in close, raised the butt of the shotgun towards Sam's face, and everything around Sam went white...

_**Five**_

Azazel pushed through the pile of rubble and brushed the dust and dirt from Maureen's shoulders. It was already healing the damage it had done to the woman. She was useful, and it had no intention of damaging her permanently, or letting her stay that way.

And the Winchester boys, well, _they _had exceeded its wildest expectations.

It was a shame about Travis, but, oh well. Going up against a predator like Dean Winchester didn't leave much doubt as to the outcome.

Azazel looked down at notDean and quirked an eyebrow. It would be fun to bedevil the brothers by showing up wearing a body that looked just like the eldest, especially since Dean was currently on the downward slide for the moment. The Demon could sense the loathing Dean had for himself, but he also feared what he had become, could become, along with a dark fascination on the boy's part, a curiosity about just how far he could go.

Getting stabbed with the thorn could help Dean with that.

And Sam, rising to the challenge of getting his injured brother out of the house, nearly bringing the house down around them, well, there was no downside to this. Not at all.

The last wound in Maureen's body had closed up rather nicely, as Azazel leaned down and pulled notDean up on his feet. It opened Maureen's mouth wide and black smoke boiled out, curving through the air towards notDean, and that was when it sensed a wrongness. It brushed against those full slack lips and recoiled back into Maureen's mouth with a violent jerk.

They'd left a blessing inside the body, one that could trap something even like him. It snarled as it pushed the sleeve of notDean's jacket up on his arm. It saw the modified binding link there, scorched into the pale freckled skin of notDean's forearm.

Damn trickster bastards.


	21. Chp 21 Missing Scenes John & Dean

A/N – Think of this as an extra, a special feature on a DVD. Deleted scenes, additional footage that didn't make it into the theatrical version.

I want to thank you to everyone who's reviewed this story, everyone who's lurked, everyone who has this story marked as their favorite or has it on story alert. Yeah, I finally remembered to check the story stats and I was blown away by what I saw.

This chapter is tied into the time John and Dean spent out in the Desert Southwest (Chapter 14 – Bleed Through). You don't have to read Chapter 14 to understand this one. I think this chapter pretty much stands on its own.

The next two chapters reveal John, Bobby, and Sam's reaction to CoyoteDean.

Big John's up now. Bobby and Sam take over in Chapter 22, which I will post tomorrow.

The "legendary Winchester angst" level in this one starts out at Red.

Disclaimer: As always, don't own 'em, just playin' with 'em, yadda yadda yadda…

**Dog Eat Dog**

**Chapter 21- ****Missing Scenes – John and Dean in the Desert Southwest**

**One**

John noticed how Dean acted after Sam left. There was a growing black hole inside his eldest son, and the boy began acting even more recklessly on hunts, taking more and more stupid chances. Dean drank more, left the motel room nearly every night in search of some local lovely to bed down for the night. He got into more fights than usual in bars when he hustled pool, and he seemed to enjoy getting hurt, and dishing hurt out to anybody dumb enough to mess with him.

Nothing the kid did was in moderation anymore. It wasn't good, and it wasn't healthy. His eldest son was drowning in grief, and John knew it. The thing was, John wouldn't tell him to stop. Couldn't. John wasn't that good with emotions either. Emotions were a liability sometimes. Worse than useless. They couldn't be field stripped and reassembled, and were absolutely damned worthless in a fight.

John did the best he could as a father to his sons. He also knew that Sam would have had plenty to say about his fatherly response to Dean's pain.

But Sam wasn't here, and damn it,_ he_ was the cause of that pain, and that was the whole point. Dean was more stable when Sam was around. He'd taken care of the kid for the past twenty two years of his life; it wasn't like he could just flip a switch and turn_ that_ off.

So they started hunting more in Arizona, New Mexico, and California. John didn't have to say, and Dean knew why. Or, at least he _thought_ he did, and at first it seemed to settle Dean down, especially after John got that big ass black truck of his and that same day tossed the keys to the Impala to Dean.

For a while, at least, things got back to normal, or at least, as normal as it ever got for their fucked up little family unit. Dean settled down, was able to focus more on research and hunting fuglies, and after they arrived in California Dean started disappearing for a day or two, between hunts. John pretty much figured out that Dean was sneaking away to check on Sam at Stanford. It was all good, so he didn't say anything to him about it.

John noticed a change in Dean's behavior when they hit New Mexico. Subtle changes, really, no one else would have picked up on it. But he knew his son, knew his boy, and even though the kid kept things pretty well closed up inside himself, John could tell when Dean was a little…off.

He seemed freaked out sometimes, for no reason. Once while they paid a visit to a shaman for a consultation on a skinwalker they were hunting, the shaman averted his eyes when he was around Dean, while Dean stared back at him with this haughty, arrogant look on his face. John knew Dean had never seen the man before in his life, so what the hell was _that_ all about?

Dean zoned out several times as they drove out in the desert in John's truck, near sacred places that were so well hidden that only John's contacts knew the locations. He was normal when they hit the tourist traps. It was the wide open spaces that seemed to draw Dean with an irresistible pull, and it was more than just the idea that these were places he'd never been before. Looking at him, John honestly believed that Dean had no clue what was going on.

Several times John turned around in time to see this hooded, speculative look in Dean's eyes as he looked around at the desert skyline, at the mountains, and just that quick, whatever was behind the look was gone.

Dread and alarm curled around John's spine like long wisps of smoke. Something was wrong. Seriously wrong.

John recalled the first Marine speech he'd ever given Dean. It was one of many Dean took to heart. It was the speech Sam hated with a passion:

"There are things out here that can slip into us. Because we hunt _them_, they might decide to hunt _us_. We have to do whatever is necessary to protect one another. And if that's not enough, we have to take care of each other, and do the hardest thing we've ever done. Sometimes death can be a kindness."

During the second week out there John received a Federal Express package from Bobby Singer. Amulets. Charms. Bobby was a big believer in them, and they had saved his ass on many an occasion on hunts. Bobby was one of the oldest hunters John knew, and there weren't very many old hunters out there, so when Robert Eugene Singer spoke, John Winchester sat down, shut the hell up, and listened.

There was one trinket in particular that John was interested in.

John picked it up and turned it over in his broad strong fingers. The thick brown leather cord was the newest thing about it. The medallion felt old, and it was a heavy sumbitch. It didn't look like anything special. Most things that have power behind them usually look like something you'd pick up at a garage sale. You can leave the flash and dash for Hollywood. This thing was a flat dull grey color, eight sided, with a circular hole in the center. The raised inscriptions on it were nearly worn smooth by all the fingers that had touched it over the centuries.

It had various names throughout the centuries, but the eye of Abraxas was the one name that kept cropping up in connection with it. No one really knew where it had come from. There were only five in existence, and on one level John really didn't want to know how Bobby had been able to get both of them.

Now Bobby had one, and John and his boys had the other one.

It was said that you could bring what was hidden out into the light with the eye.

John raised an eyebrow as he put it out on the table, a little away from the others. Dean was out getting supper. Best case scenario, he would pick it up, handle it, and nothing happened. Worst case, whatever was inside him would recognize the eye and avoid it like the plague.

John sat at the wooden table inventorying the package contents into the journal as Dean came in with two take-out bags of food. He set the bags on the kitchen counter and shrugged out of his black fatigue jacket.

Dean came over and idly ran his fingers through the assortment of charms and amulets on the table. He picked up the eye.

"Huh. Dad, what's this one for---" and his voice trailed off. Dean felt an electric buzz go from his fingers to the top of his head. The last thing he remembered was opening his mouth. He tried to say "What the fuck---" but nothing came out. His mouth and tongue felt numb, and nothing worked right. Then, darkness.

John glanced up just in time to see Dean's face go suddenly, horribly blank.

Dean made a sound that was somewhere between a sigh and a moan, low in his throat, and that sound raised the hair at the back of John's neck. John sat back in the chair, and his heart damn near skidded out of his chest.

Dean stood there with this dazed look on his face, a death grip on the eye. The knuckles of that hand turned a bloodless white. As John watched Dean's pupils lightened up, became a golden yellow color.

_The Demon. The fucking yellow eyed Demon..._

_Oh Dear God…_John thought, and for a moment he forgot how to even breathe. He froze for a moment, then he slowly stood up. The chair scraped loudly on the worn wooden floor as John got up, and stepped over to his son's body. Dean leaned in his direction as if pulled towards his father by some sort of magnetic attraction; he bumped up heavily against John and John steadied him by the elbow.

Dean stared straight ahead, his blank green eyes focused on something distant, far away that only he could see. His breathing slowed down and his head bobbled. That glow in his eyes could have been mistaken for highlights from the lighting overhead, but John wasn't fooled.

John slipped his hand inside his jeans pocket and looped a string of containment amulets around Dean's neck. Dean didn't resist; hell, he didn't even seem to notice. He swayed on his feet as John pulled out the other wooden chair at the table and gently lowered him down onto the seat.

John brought both of Dean's hands down in front of him and looped a string of containment amulets around Dean's wrists. His mind raced ahead, a mile a minute, as he looped thick sturdy rope around Dean's chest, roped his son's wrists and ankles to the chair. John knew the _Rituale Romanum_ by heart, but if he faltered, there was always the copy he kept in his journal.

"Who am I speaking to? Who's there?" John grated. The inside of his throat was like sand, dry, rough, and dusty.

"_Mą'ii,"_ Dean breathed, as if that explanation were perfectly clear, and was all the answer that John needed. Dean's voice was deeper, lower than normal.

John frowned. "Who?"

"_Mą'ii." _Dean repeated languidly, with a slight accent that John couldn't place. _"Roamer._ _Coyote."_

"Coyote? The _Trickster_ Coyote? How long have you been inside my son?"

Dean blinked those impossibly long eyelashes of his slowly.

"_Since birth. I died and was reborn within him." _

Which _wasn't_ the answer that John was expecting.

At all.

_**Two**_

_**Coyote Kiva - Iskiva – near Oraibi at Hopi**_

The moment they'd entered the place, John noticed the change in Dean immediately.

That yellow glint that flared up in Dean's eyes sent a cold chill down John's spine. There was something inhumanly smooth and powerful in the way Dean moved. He walked ahead of John like he already knew the way. Knew exactly where he was going, like he'd been there many times before, and could find his way in pitch blackness, blindfolded.

Bertha Two Dogs stood in the grass near the sacred place. She was dressed in blue jeans, and she held the reins of a skittish brown mare that snorted and pawed the ground.

The valley below rolled out beneath them, green, sparse, and rocky all at the same time, with the mountains in the distance. Dean looked at Bertha Two-Dogs and nodded, like he'd known the woman all his life. John knew for a fact that Dean had never laid eyes on her before.

She nodded back, gravely. A tall, dignified Native American woman with jet black hair streaked with gray, pulled back into a bun, John had no idea exactly how old she was. She hadn't been that surprised when he called her, seemed to know details of exactly what was going on with Dean. She told John what was happening, not the other way around. She came highly recommended by Ellen Harvelle, which was the only reason they were here in the first place.

He looked at Dean and nodded "Old Father," she said simply.

Dean was equally solemn. _"Daughter." _His voice was a rich, deep-throated growl.

Dean easily stepped up onto the wide stone ledge. It surrounded a deep hole surrounded by a wall of stones overlooking the valley. The wind picked up, swirled gently around him.

John's eyes narrowed; he could almost see long streamers of golden energy swirling around Dean. The elder Winchester tried to fool himself into thinking it was a trick of the light, an illusion caused by the late afternoon sun setting over the valley.

He was having a hard time with that, among other things.

Dean stood there, eyes closed, a contented smile on his face. He raised his arms, tilted his head back, and the light swirled around him lazily, caressing his skin like a long lost lover.

John's skin fairly prickled with the vibrations the place gave off. It was between worlds; the boundaries between_ here_ and_ there_ were nonexistent.

"_Home. I'm home. Thank you." _

"We're not staying, princess," John growled roughly, "so don't get comfortable."

"_I know."_

Dean opened his eyes, put his arms down. He turned to face John, and the young man stood there, the slight smile on his face relaxed and easy. The eyes were the worst part, even though the color was all wrong. This was a purer, softer golden yellow than the Demon's murky eye color, but it tightened John's chest just the same.

_Don't do that,_ John thought. _Don't smile at me like that. Don't tilt your head to one side just like Dean does._ Coyote's easy familiarity with Dean's body scraped at John's already raw nerves. _You're not my son. You can't be… _

John blinked away images of Mary sprawled pale and bleeding on the ceiling of Sam's nursery, and he scowled darkly at the being occupying his eldest son's body.

"_I don't mean any harm, John. You must know that."_

"I'll be the judge of that. My son must've had a pretty damn good reason to wall your ass up like that. Just so you know, I'm not letting you out permanently. I want my boy back."

_"Back?"_ Coyote looked puzzled._ "He's still here. We're one and the same ---"_

"No, you're not!" John roared. He'd had enough.

Bertha Two-Dogs actually flinched. The brown mare whinnied, sidled a few steps away and stood still.

For a moment, just a moment, John thought he glimpsed a pained expression on Dean's face. Then the moment passed and Dean's face was calm, his expression unreadable. Thank God, Coyote shut the hell up, because John didn't know how he would have reacted if the…damned…thing… had kept on talking.

"You're…you're not my son. You're not Dean." John forced himself to take deep breaths. He was gripped by rage that shook him to his very core. His muscles vibrated with the strain. By some miracle he was able to keep his hands down by his sides.

"You're some unnatural, ungodly fugly, the same as that yellow-eyed bastard that killed my wife. Our lives were destroyed because of a thing like you. You're not Dean. You're _not_ my son—"

Coyote frowned. He seemed intent on trying to make John understand something that John didn't _want_ to understand._ "Yes, I am…"_

John was up on the ledge before he even realized it. He reached out, fisted the lapels of Dean's jacket with both hands. He jerked Dean's body towards him, and Coyote immediately stilled. They stood there, nose to nose.

"You're _not_. You hear me, you unnatural sumbitch? You're _not_." John shook Coyote twice, hard, for emphasis. "We hunt down and kill evil things like you," John grated out.

Coyote broke eye contact, and he reacted just as Dean would have: Coyote bowed his head, stared down at the ground. That damn near broke John's heart; it was the same gesture he had seen Dean do many times, since he was a kid, whenever John confronted him, the few times John had to reprimand him.

Anyone else would have gotten a cold stare, a smirk, a smart-ass remark from Dean.

Dean would have kicked ass if anyone else had dared lay a hand on him like that.

_Dean reacted this way only with John._

"I _will_ find a way to separate the two of you." John's voice was softer, dangerous. "And if I find out that you _do_ intend harm to me and mine, I will dropkick you into the nearest hell dimension and make sure you never bother my son again. Believe that."

Coyote's face was too calm, carefully blank.

John pushed him back with a hard jerk, and Coyote continued to stare at the ground.

A slight breeze came out of nowhere that centered around Dean, gently ruffling the short dark blond hair at the back of his neck. John turned abruptly on his heel and walked away. He was damned if he was going to indulge this sumbitch any more at his son's expense. He still had more research to do on Coyote. Needed to find out the Trickster's weaknesses.

And how to deal with ensouled former demigods was now at the top of John's "To Do" List, along with killing yellow eyed sumbitches. Just who the hell did the Greater Good think they were, doing things like this just because this sumbitch had gotten_ lonely_?

Bertha Two-Dogs mounted up, nudged the brown mare forward so that she and Coyote stood side by side as he stood on the ledge. Coyote watched John Winchester walk away, and John didn't even look back.

"I mean no disrespect, Old Man," she said, as Coyote raised a hand and idly stroked the brown mare's forehead. "But how _else_ did you think this was going to go?"

Coyote sighed and shook his head before he stepped down.

The further away they got from the kiva, the deeper Coyote sank back inside Dean. The glow in Dean's eyes faded. He looked a little confused by the time they reached the Impala, like he couldn't even remember getting out of the car in the first place, but Dean was damned if he was going to admit_ that_. John stood there at the driver's side, and as Dean walked up John searched his son's face with his eyes so intently Dean flinched a little.

Dean's face immediately went carefully blank. He even sneered a little, as if he was so damned disinterested in everything he just couldn't be bothered.

Marines man up. They don't admit weakness.

_**Three**_

Later on, at sunset, the sun burned its way below the horizon. The sky turned a warm mellow orange color, purple shadows on the mountains, the promise of night not far behind. Dean supposed that if Sammy were here he could come up with all kinds of girly ways to describe it. Dean had only one. He liked the way it looked. Period. That was it. That was enough for him.

He leaned against the Impala with his hands in the pockets of his jeans. Dean glanced around as John came out of the motel room, stretched his back out (damn cheap motel chairs) and leaned against the car beside him.

"Dad…" Dean swallowed hard. He was skirting chick flick territory with this one, but something nagged at him and he couldn't ignore it. He'd been feeling disconnected to everything all day, like he was just a passenger in his body. Dad would tell him if anything was wrong. If anything was wrong Dad could fix it, set things right. "Are you mad at me about somethin'?"

"What?" John honestly seemed shocked. "No. Dean, why would you say that?"

Dean shrugged. "I just--- I mean…" He frowned as he struggled to put what he was feeling into words. Images of John yelling at him, John sad, angry, and afraid for him flashed across Dean's mind. He shook his head. He couldn't think of anything he'd done, anything he'd fucked up. This shit wasn't making any sense. None of this was.

John reached out and put his hand on Dean's shoulder. "How you feelin', Ace?"

Dean shrugged. "Fine, I guess."

"I love you, son," John said simply. "You_ do_ know that, don't you?"

Dean eyed John uneasily. "Yeah, Dad. I know you do."

John kept his hand on Dean's shoulder. It felt fine at first, wasn't any different from the other times Dad had done it, but yeah, _now_ it left Dean feeling strange. Weirded out, like there was something going on and he had no damned clue what it was. Where the hell was he supposed to go with _this_? Hug the old man and say "I love you" back?

Damn, this was _awkward_.

Dean fidgeted. He quirked an eyebrow at his Dad.

John shrugged. "Just thought it needed to be said, that's all," he said casually. He stood there for a few moments longer, then pushed himself up and walked back into the cabin.

Back to the research, the books, and that damn laptop. Damn laptop was worse than trying to operate that damn toaster. Back to the grind.

"Christo," Dean mumbled softly under his breath, at his Dad's back, and John had to smile a little at that.


	22. Chapter 22 Slow Burn on a Half Life

A/N – This chapter contains angst, hurt!Coyote/Dean, Protective!Sam, all the Bobby Singer you could ever want, YED machinations, weirdness, cursing... Yep, just another ordinary day in the lives of Sam and Dean Winchester.

Summary: CoyoteDean as seen through the eyes of Sam and Bobby.

That said, let the angst commence….

**Dog Eat Dog**

**Chapter 22 – Slow Burn on a Half-Life**

_**One**_

"Sam?"

Bobby's voice echoed down a long dim tunnel. Sam saw a flash of yellow eyes, heard that peculiar throaty growl in Dean's voice…

…_gonna kill us…_

Sam came awake with a jerk. His head protested the sudden change in position by throbbing, low and painful, right behind his eyes. He groaned, gingerly ran his hand over his face. Something hung around his neck that wasn't there before, and Sam dropped his hand down lower, onto his chest.

He swayed a little in the chair. His eyes couldn't focus at first, and then his vision cleared a little and he squinted at the string of charms and amulets around his neck.

This man-sized blur standing directly in front of him held out something to him. It was clear and whatever it was sloshed around wetly.

"You…you hit me." Sam said hoarsely. His eyes traveled up Bobby's form, and by the time Sam reached Bobby's face he could actually see.

Well, kind of.

He squinted a little. Two Bobby Singers wavered around in the same space, then formed into one.

Huh.

And the first damn thing Sam thought was that it was all good, because at least he hadn't woken up tied to a chair or something.

"Sorry I had to do that." Bobby said gruffly. "Had to make sure you weren't being possessed or controlled by that yellow eyed bastard. Here. Drink this."

Bottle. Cold. Water bottle. Okay. Sam uncapped the bottle, took a swig, and the next thing he knew the bottle was empty. He hadn't realized he was that damn thirsty. He didn't worry about getting a cramp from the cold water. That would have been the least of his worries tonight.

"Where's Dean?"

Bobby shrugged. "He's in the next room." Sam's eyes narrowed and Bobby added quickly, "I didn't hurt him, Sam. Just tied him up so he wouldn't hurt himself. Or me."

Tied him up? Oh shit, that_ wasn't_ good.

"Where are we?" He put his palms down on the table, and pushed himself up. His knees felt shaky. He shook his head when Bobby put out a hand and tried to help him up.

"Figured we'd better hole up somewhere. I got you boys back into my truck and drove away from that house. Turned in here. The good news is we've got our pick of any house around here, Sam. The bad news is I haven't seen anyone living since I left the Roadway Inn."

Sam stared around the place. Kitchen. Somebody's kitchen. Sunflower yellow curtains up to the windows. The blinds were drawn, though, and Sam was grateful he couldn't see that damn maroon night sky. Inside, though, this place was cheerful. Normal. Penguin shaped cookie jar on the countertop. Assorted magnets and Post-It notes with reminders scribbled on them stuck on the front of the refrigerator.

And from what he'd seen on the streets, Bobby highly doubted that whoever owned the house was _ever_ coming back.

Sam stood there, leaning on the table, as wobbly-legged as a new born foal, and Bobby frowned. "Take it easy, Sam---"

Sam shook his head. "Gotta see about Dean. He's hurt. Travis stabbed him with…something. Some kind of thorn…"

Sam tried not to think about the way Dean stood there, calmly, those golden eyes of hsis unblinking as he held Travis' heart as it beat out its last in his hand.

Bobby turned towards the kitchen sink, and when he turned around again he gave Sam another bottle of cold water and a handful of thick olive green washcloths and a towel and the first aid kit from Bobby's truck.

Sam swallowed hard as he stepped into the next room, and even though he understood the precautions, understood the reasoning behind Bobby's actions, Sam hated what Bobby had done.

Dean sat upright in a large sturdy wooden chair. Bobby had removed his leather jacket, draped it over the back of another chair nearby. Dean's wrists were tied to the armrests with thick rope, and his ankles were tied to the front legs. A string of containment amulets hung around Dean's neck and wrists.

Dean's breathing was slow, ragged, and seemed to echo in the still quiet of the room. His eyes were closed and his head lolled limply to one side. He didn't have any bruises on his face or body, which meant that either Coyote hadn't put up much of a fight or Bobby had restrained himself.

And none of that made Sam feel any better.

Something growled from behind him. Sam froze, then turned around. Slowly.

There was a big black dog, some kind of German shepherd God knows what else mix laying in the far corner next to the window. She rose up, growling, when she saw him.

"Condie," Bobby called out, and she subsided immediately. Her ears were pricked alertly and she never stopped staring at Sam. Or Dean.

Sam frowned. "Condie?"

"Condelezza Rice," Bobby said simply.

"Oh." Bobby had a habit of naming his dogs after various government officials. Sam couldn't tell if it was for ridicule or as a tribute, and he'd never asked Bobby why.

"Dean?" Sam said softly. There was a chance Dean could hear what was going on around him. Sam didn't want to startle him. Dean didn't move, but Sam spoke to him anyway. "Dean, it's me, Sam. I'm going to patch you up now. Bobby got us out to a safe place and we're holed up for now."

Nothing. Not even a blink or a twitch.

Sam started slowly. He folded the washcloth in half and blotted Dean's face and neck with it. Dean's flushed skin seemingly sucked up the cold water. His only movement was the slow labored rise and fall of his chest. Sam hated the limp, unresponsive feel of his brother's body. He tried not to think about Dean not waking up. Ever.

Sam focused on cutting the t shirt away from the wound in Dean's chest. The hole was about the size of a quarter, and it looked more like an angry red burn now than a puncture wound. He swabbed it with hydrogen peroxide, let that foam up, wiped that away, then applied antibiotic cream and gently taped a pad of cotton gauze over the wound. And all the while he was hoping, praying that Dean would wake up, look at him, cuss him out for ruining his shirt, snarl at him for hurting him like a sumbitch, something.

Nothing.

Bobby stood behind him quietly. Sam knew he was there all along, knew what the older hunter was doing. He was standing watch, in case Sam did something stupid.

Like now.

Sam fingered the ropes around Dean's wrists. He was close to undoing them when Bobby stepped forward.

"Sam," Bobby said warningly. "Don't. You don't know who's driving." He nodded at Dean. "He's okay like that, for now."

Bobby could see how it was going to go with Sam already. The protective way Sam cradled Dean's body while that yellow eyed critter stood there in Dean's body. The connection the brothers had was exactly what some fuglies would use against hunters that came after them. Blood _is_ thicker than water. It's hard to drop the hammer on something that looks like your own kin.

Dean stirred. "Hot in here…" he mumbled dully. His pale freckled skin was again covered with a light sheen of sweat. His eyes flickered open.

Sam tried hard not to stare. The center of Dean's pupils shone with a mellow golden yellow glow.

"Hey." Sam smiled as he carefully blotted Dean's skin with a clean folded washcloth. "Dude, you had me worried."

"Hey…Sammy." Dean smiled tiredly. "Didn't mean to." He tried to raise his arms and couldn't.

He stared down at his body, scowled at the ropes around his wrists. "Not again," he mumbled. "This is gettin' to be a habit."

"What'd you say?"

"Nothin'. I just…nothin'."

Which let Sam know that it was_ something_, all right.

Dean squinted at the string of amulets around Sam's neck. "What's with the jewelry, Samantha? Man, you need to accessorize better." Dean's voice had a tired, wheezy quality that Sam didn't like. "That doesn't even go with your skin tone."

"Accessorize? Skin tone?" Somehow this was _not_ the conversation Sam thought they'd be having. "Dean, where'd you pick _that_ up from?"

"Oprah." Dean said dazedly. The fever was making Dean admit to things he wouldn't ordinarily admit to.

"Oprah?" Despite the shitty situation they were in, Sam _had_ to smile a little. "So you really _do_ watch Oprah, 'bro?"

Dean looked left over Sam's shoulder, and then stared at a point somewhere below Sam's right elbow. "No. Maybe. Yeah."

Sam hooked his fingers into the string of charms around Dean's neck and raised them up so Dean could see them. Dean almost went cross-eyed, and he groaned out loud. "Aw, man. Bobby…" He shook his head tiredly. The motion seemed to drain him.

"Here." Sam uncapped the second water bottle. "You're dehydrated. Drink it slow. Hold it in your mouth for a minute or so, let it warm up before you swallow it."

All Dean could do was nod weakly. Sam tilted the bottle to Dean's lips. He took a sip, and Sam slowly lowered the bottle, waited while Dean held the water in his mouth, then swallowed. They repeated that several more times, until Dean shook his head _no_. _No more._

"Okay." Sam capped the bottle up again. Half was gone. That was a good start.

"Dean, when was the last time you ate something?" That glow in Dean's eyes flickered.

Dean stared blankly.

"Dean?"

"I don't – I don't think I do that anymore."

"What?"

"C-can't remember," Dean said, a little too quickly.

"Been meaning to ask you, Dean," Bobby drawled. He pushed away from the doorframe he'd been leaning against. "What did you do to my dog?"

Dean stared at the floor. Sam looked around, puzzled.

"They beat her, Sam," Bobby said calmly. "They couldn't possess her, so they beat her to death. I saw it. Dean brought her back."

"I …I …didn't …she wasn't dead." Dean managed slowly. It was suddenly hard to think of the right words to say. "She was hanging on. Didn't want to leave you, Bobby. She just…needed some help…coming…back…."

Bobby raised the bag of salt in his hand. The older man shrugged. "I need to salt the doors and windows," he said as he walked out of the room.

Sam nodded. It was just as well. He really didn't want to discuss the other things he knew Dean had done in front of Bobby.

"Why can't you heal yourself like you healed me?" Dean's skin looked flush all over again. Sam folded another washcloth and wet it up with water from the bottle.

"Nothin's working like it should." Dean leaned back and closed his eyes. "Whatever that kid hit me with…feels like I've been poisoned…."

"That kid's name was Travis, Dean. You killed him."

Dean sighed tiredly, as if he was not at all fucking surprised, which made Sam really wonder what else he'd been doing the last couple of days. "Thought so. Couldn't remember if I did or not."

"You don't remember that? He was disembodied and you were still able to pull his heart out of his chest."

"I don't remember that….I didn't mean to…" Dean's voice trailed off.

_Another one. More blood on my hands…_

…_this place brings out the worst in our kind…_

"The Demon said Coyote's been inside you since birth."

"Bastard. Told the truth for once, just to start some shit."

"What'd you do to Bobby?" Sam whispered.

"Froze him. Controlled him." Dean made a face. "He stuck a shotgun in Coyote's face and pulled the trigger."

"Ouch." Sam nodded. "Yeah, that's Bobby. No wonder he seems a little pissed off at you."

"Sammy…dude…what I did to you back there…I'm sorry. I was gonna force you to shut up, force you to leave with me. I'm sorry. I didn't mean to…"

"It's okay. I_ was_ kinda freakin' out…."

"No, Sam, it's not okay. I'm sorry I put you through this whole mess. If anyone fucked up, it was me. I'm 'pposed to be lookin' out after you, _not_ the other way around."

"Dean…" Sam said slowly. "That…that thing with your face. That was _you_, right? You were controlling it like a puppet, weren't you?"

Dean sighed. "Bastard had my face, my body. Wanted to lure you in. Figured it was only fair to let him know how it felt to be a hand puppet. Knew they were waiting for me…to come inside the house. Only thing I could think of…didn't mean…to trick _you_, Sammy…just them…"

"I could tell it was_ you_. No matter what, I could tell…" Sam laughed softly. "You did pretty good with that long distance telepathy too. What happened at Wal-Mart?"

"Smoked 'em. All…of 'em." Dean whispered roughly. He put his head back and closed his eyes. Talking was an effort. Staying awake was costing him dearly.

"Damn." This should be scaring the hell out of me, Sam thought._ I'm_ the freak, not Dean. He's been the one constant in my life I could depend on, no matter what…

Bobby came back with the empty bag of salt in his hand. He looked at Dean, seemed satisfied that Sam hadn't untied him. Bobby raised one eyebrow. "Sam, we have to talk." And he motioned for Sam to follow him back into the kitchen.

_**Two**_

Dean and Coyote slept badly. They twitched in their sleep. They both dreamed of screaming black smoke that snapped and bit, and this time there wasn't any escape for them. They had no weapons, no power, no way to fight back. This time they were pulled down, and they couldn't even scream. Smoke black claws and teeth sunk deep into their shared flesh. Their ribcage was pulled open like the petals of a flower.

Dean's body twitched as the shadows fed on his still beating heart. Dean felt something pull at him, separate him from Coyote, and he hated that small whimper of pain and protest that came out of his throat. He was alone in that place. He was alone, and a pair of yellow eyes hung in the darkness, waiting.

_Dean?_

…_lea'…l-leave me…alone… _

_Come on out here, boy. Let's talk._

…_don't wanna …talk to you…_

_Oh, don't be like that. I think you'll want to hear what I have to say. I haven't hurt Sam in a while. You keep refusing me like that and you're gonna hurt my feelings. And I'm gonna start in on Sam again. _

…_don't…don't hurt him any more…_

_Well, come on out, then. I won't bite._

The ropes loosened by themselves, then slid away from his wrists and ankles.

It took an effort to get to his feet. Every muscle in his body was tight, sore. His bones ached.

He felt old. Tired.

He felt weak, and he hated himself for it.

_Attaboy, _Azazel purred.

He tried to move with his usual grace and stealth. It was a joke.

This was one of those damned dreams within a dream, just the kind of screwed up shit that Dean hated. He felt like he was coming apart, but he remembered enough from when he was awake. This place was different, and Dean knew it.

Only problem was, he didn't know how long he could hold onto that memory.

Sam sat slumped in one of the other high-backed chairs, his jacket pulled up close around his neck. He stirred in Dean's direction, and Dean froze, swaying on his feet.

Bobby sat slumped over in that wooden chair he'd pulled over to the window.

Condie lay stretched out asleep in the far corner.

_Stop trying to fool yourself, dude, _a voice inside his head said, and Dean stopped, startled. It wasn't Coyote, it wasn't the Demon.

It was _his_ voice. _His own damn voice._

_Are you really doing this for Sam_, that small voice whispered slyly,_or is it because you miss having all that power? All that juice?_

_I don't…_

_There's no shame in wanting it back, bro'. No shame at all. Why don't you just cut the bullshit and ask for what you really want?_

_Shut up. Shut the hell up._

_Suit yourself. _The voice sounded bored._ Just giving you some friendly advice. No need to be such a bitch about it. _

Dean staggered, he stumbled, and somehow he was able to get out of the place without waking every damn body up.

The Demon stood outside waiting for him inside a different kid's body. He was a different one, the youngest one yet, about fifteen, sixteen. Dean had never seen him before. Red hair, yellow eyes. Same wide hellish grin.

_Another friggin' one._ Dean thought dully. _How many of those damn kids did he bring with him?_

_No hard feelings, huh, kid? _Dean staggered, nearly fell when it clapped him hard on the back.

_Oh. Sorry. _He knew it wasn't.

It smiled approvingly at the sluggish way Dean moved, the fever barely contained beneath the surface of his pale skin, the dull look in his eyes.

"_I'm just here to talk about your future, that's all. You've got options, of course. There's always the matter of that pesky free will. I'll let you leave. You and Coyote."_

"Sam…"Dean whispered roughly, and the kid frowned and shook his head.

"_Sam stays, Deano. He and I are linked, remember? That's not even negotiable. I'd appreciate it if you wouldn't interrupt me again. Made me lose my train of thought. Now where was I?" _That smile came back, bright and wide._"Anyway, you and your dog can leave. Leave and never come back. You can wander around in the outside world. Diminished. Living a half-life. You're on the downward slide, Dean. After this it'll get progressively worse. You won't be able to hunt. Won't be able to think clearly enough to hold down a job. I can see you homeless and living on the streets in one month's time."_

The red-headed kid shook his head regretfully, then smiled. _I got the cure for what ails you right here, dude. _He raised his arm and Dean stared at the monstrosity the kid held in his hand. It looked like a crown of thorns, but it was a collar. A fucking black metal collar of thorns, with a length of chain trailing down to the ground. The kid squeezed his hand, and the collar expanded.

_"Oh, don't be put off by the way this little beauty looks. It was made especially for the two of you. You'd even recognize the names of some mutual friends if I mentioned them to you, by the way. They were very interested in helping you recapture past glories. And the nice part about it is, you don't have to wear this all the time. You put it on once, keep it on for a little while…you already look like hell, so a couple or hours should do it, and then you take it off. One time. That's it."_

_"And after that you can stay. You can live up to your full potential, surrounded by everyone you love. Sam. I can even arrange for John to come up. You can have Redd. Slymm. Any woman you want._ The kid leaned forward, a grotesque expression of fake concern on his face. _"Cassie? I got friends all over the place. It can be arranged."_

_"Aren't you tired of hiding, Dean?" _The kid leaned in, put his hand on Dean's back.

_Don't touch me,_ Dean thought dazedly. _Don't fucking touch me._ He was so weak it was all he could do to just _think_ the words.

"_Aren't you tired of having to having to restrain yourself all the time, tired of having to explain yourself, especially to the people who claim they love you?" _The kid's hand started to move, in small comforting circles on Dean's back, the same way the boys used to comfort each other when they were very small._ "What's the sense of knowing everything you do, of having all those abilities, and not being able to use 'em?"_

"I don't… that's not…me,"_ Dean said in a small voice._

"_Don't sell yourself short, Dean. There's more locked up inside that pretty head of yours than you realize." _

"_This town is mine now. I got some of my people in low places on their way up here right now to check out the real estate. It's true what they say. Location, location, location." _The kid lowered his voice slightly, as if he were telling Dean something that was meant for Dean's ears only._ "Let's just say that the other side was willing to give up some ground here. You don't see any heavenly hosts come charging in to say the day, do ya?"_

Dean shook his head numbly. He was _so _tired. He wanted to just lie down on the ground, curl up in a ball and close his eyes and rest, let whatever happened, just happen. But the gravelly purring voice coming out of the kid's mouth kept him on his feet. That whiskey rough voice had his full attention and wasn't going to let him go until it finished.

"_I'm willing to share all this with you." _The kid raised one arm expansively._ "Hell on Earth. Our own little corner of the world. You can rest up here, come fully into your own. After that, we'll pay the outside world a visit that's long overdue. When the time comes, Dean, it will be glorious. Together we'll make the outside world pay for the way they ignored you and your family. Make them pay for having that normal life that you and Sam were denied. Think about it, that's all I'm saying." _The red-headed kid grinned, spread his hands wide. _"And when you reach a decision, you know where to find me..." _

Dean swayed on his feet, and just stared at him.

_**Three**_

"Look, I know you boys were talking amongst yourselves. Right now you think I'm being a hard ass about Dean, but I'm not."

"He's still my brother, Bobby. No matter how much he's changed…"

Bobby quirked an eyebrow at Sam.

"You got a talent for _understatement_, Sam." Bobby said dryly. "Dean came to the Roadway Inn, got me away from that thing with his face and the demon possessing me. He pulled that demon out of me with his bare hands, killed it as easily as you or I would crumple up a piece of paper. Incinerated those other fuglies right in front of my eyes. He healed my dog. Hell, brought her back to life as far as I know. I tried to shoot him and he stopped me cold. So don't try to con a con man, Sam. We're not gonna get out of this unless you keep me in the loop. I know what's going on, and I know there's someone else inside there with Dean. So who is it?"

Sam hesitated. He looked like he'd rather take a beating than say anything. He wasn't sure how Bobby would react to the news. "Coyote."

"Coyote? The…the trickster Coyote?"

"Yeah."

"Well, how long has he been…is this some sort of revenge thing for killing that one at Crawford Hall?"

Sam looked away.

"Sam?"

"Since…since birth, Bobby."

"Since…what?"

"Birth. The Demon said Coyote was ensouled with Dean.""

"Damn." Bobby looked up, stared at Dean through the doorway. Dean sat in the chair with his head down and his eyes closed.

Bobby glanced back at his duffel on the kitchen floor. "We don't have the materials to deal with Coyote here. That Trickster you boys tracked at Crawford Hall was a child compared to Coyote." Bobby shrugged. "The best we can do is contain him until we can get him back to my place, and then we'll go from there."

Bobby walked over, picked his duffel bag up and dropped it on the kitchen table. He rummaged through it. Where the hell was…"That's another thing," Bobby said out loud. "Two in one body. Usually the stronger personality will overtake the weaker one. That's not happening here. They're switching back and forth." His fingers closed around a metal octagon shape. He pulled it out, held it up by its brown leather cord under the light.

"This'll help."

"What's that?"

"The eye of Abraxas. It brings whatever's hidden out into the light. But it can also be used to lock in place whatever's already out. I know the incantation. We can keep Dean out front, temporarily give him control of his body, and lock Coyote back in."

Dean's eyes opened up. He raised his head.

It was clear from the strain in Sam's voice that he was having a hell of a hard time wrapping his head around _that_. "Two different personalities in the same body, sharing the same soul. How the hell do you separate something like that?"

Bobby sighed. He had this look on his face like he was sorry Sam had figured that out. Bobby wasn't one for handing out false hope. "In everything I've ever read about him, Coyote is neither good nor evil. He just _is_. He's a force of nature, a Shape-changer, a Magician. You have to understand, Sam. Coyote has his dark side. Two hearted shamans invoked his name for dark magic. He could cause sickness by dropping his skin over his victims. Witches used his magic to create werecoyotes. Cannibalism, dark sorcery, you name it. Dean might have started down that road tonight, and I think you realize that too. Do you really think Dean wants to live like that?"

A shadow passed over Sam's face. "What are you saying to me, Bobby?"

"I'm saying that there may come a time when we have to think about putting Dean out of his misery."

"Stop talking about him like he's some kind of dog or animal."

"Sam, look. I'll help you. I'll do whatever I can for Dean. If there's a way to help him, I'll be the first one to try just about anything. But you have to think about this. Your father came to me years ago and asked me to…to take care of Dean in case he went dark."

Sam's gaze at Bobby was hard and steady. "Did my Dad…did he mention _me_? Are you supposed to…take care of me, too?"

Bobby shook his head. Sam could tell the older man wasn't lying about this. He didn't know how he knew, he just did. "John didn't mention _you_, Sam. He was concerned about Dean."

"Did Dad know about Coyote?"

"I don't know." Bobby frowned. "He might have. He was concerned about the yellow eyed demon. Wondered why the damned thing passed Dean over. He'd heard some things about first born children after you went off to school. He gave Dean that protection amulet. Gave it to him one day, told him to wear it all the time, and never take it off." Bobby laughed shortly. "Guess that was like locking the henhouse door with the fox already inside, huh?"

"I guess it was."

Sam stiffened as he felt something prickle the back of his skull. It was familiar, but there it was again, that sense of otherworldiness. He knew what he'd see when he turned around. Bobby caught the look on Sam's face, and his hand slipped inside his duffel.

Dean sat in the chair and stared at both of them. That golden glow in his eyes was a little brighter. His head was up, and he didn't seem to be as sluggish from the fever. Despite being tied to the chair his body language was alert, watchful. He stared steadily at Sam, looking him up and down, and the realization that he was being judged startled Sam. Dean was assessing the situation, making decisions on who was the bigger threat, who he would take down first, how much effort it would take.

This was the steady gaze of a predator targeting prey.

Wasn't anything new, really. Dean had looked like that before, lots of times, out while they were hunting. But, damn, this was the first time he had ever looked at Sam like that.

"Dean?" Sam said out loud at last.

"Sam, I don't think that's Dean," Bobby whispered tersely.


	23. Chapter 23 A Rock and A Hard Place

A/N: Italics indicate thought speech.

Spoilers: Nightmare, Faith

_**Dog Eat Dog **_

_**Chapter 23 – A Rock and A Hard Place**_

_**One**_

_Come on, Old Man, I think you oughta hear this…_

_No rest for the wicked,_ Coyote thought sourly, and as he faded into the body he kept his eyes closed, his head turned to one side.

"That Trickster you boys tracked at Crawford Hall was a child compared to Coyote …the best we can do is contain him until we can get him back to my place, and then we'll go from there."

_Wh-what?_

_We had a deal, remember? I promised I wouldn't wall you back up. I kept my promise._

Coyote opened his eyes. He raised his head.

"Two different personalities in the same body, sharing the same soul," the younger one said. "How the hell do you separate something like that?"

_Separate? You separate us, I'll die. We'll both die…_

"…you have to understand, Sam. Coyote has his dark side. Two hearted shamans invoked his name for dark magic. He could cause sickness by dropping his skin over his victims. Witches used his magic to create werecoyotes. Cannibalism, pitch dark magic, you name it. Dean might have started down that road tonight, and I think you realize that too. Do you really think Dean wants to live like that?"

…_we could kill both of 'em, y' know. Wouldn't take much to just snap their necks clean in two…stop their hearts…_

"…I'm saying that there may come a time when we have to think about putting Dean out of his misery…."

_They've turned against me. Against us. They're going to kill us both if we don't get them first…_

"…your father came to me years ago and asked me to…to take care of Dean in case he went dark…."

Wary at first, Coyote looked up just as Sam stepped forward.

Sam smiled at Coyote. Bobby looked on in disbelief.

"Hi. I'm Sam." Coyote quirked an eyebrow at him, puzzled. Kid did everything but stick out his hand for a good old fashioned handshake.

…_he's close enough…you could do it now, real easy…_

"_I know who you are,"_ Coyote growled out loud. He _wasn't_ talking to Sam.

The only answer was a familiar, low chuckle, exactly like his own. _Ah, what the hell. No harm, no foul. I figured I'd take my shot, _darkDean smirked.

_M' sick, not stupid. Tryin' to trick a Trickster. You got nerve, I'll give you that. _

_Such a clever little doggie. Finally figured it out, eh? You were the first wall Dean ever built. I was the second. You said it yourself…place like this brings out the worst in our kind, and I'm the worst there ever was. Well, see ya around, Old Man. That is, if that old dude doesn't use that shotgun on ya first. _

"Where's my brother? Where's Dean?" Sam said softly.

Sam's eyes searched Dean's face, apparently looking for some hint of recognition in Coyote's eyes, some trace of Dean in there. Coyote looked up wearily at Sam, no longer able to hide the weakness he felt in his face and body.

"_Here…inside…" _it was Dean's voice, but at the same time, it wasn't. Coyote's voice was lower, deeper, more feral._ "… he's not dead, not gone…"_

That golden glint in Coyote's eyes grew stronger.

Sam found himself standing in his old nursery back in Lawrence Kansas. He watched four year old Dean standing on the chair next to his crib. Sam saw himself at four months, cooing and laughing at the toys levitating in mid-air over the crib. Sam felt Dean's pure joy at being able to do something that his baby brother liked, and seconds later Sam heard his infant self cry, more startled than anything else, when Dean accidentally dropped that large stuffed animal on baby Sam. Sam could almost feel the fear and remorse Dean felt at the time.

The wall around Coyote went up almost immediately.

"I --- I didn't remember before. I was too young," Sam whispered to himself. "That's why Dean hid you all these years."

"_Thought I was dangerous and he wanted to protect you. He always has. After a while, he forgot about me. He forgot about me, and I couldn't get out…"_

"Sam, get the hell away from him…"

"_Whatever I else I show you, whatever else I say, you're not going to believe me," _Coyote said tiredly. _"Your brother didn't, at first. He's a pigheaded bastard."_ He stared up at the young human, and the expression on Sam's face was unreadable.

Sam knelt, undid the knots and pulled the ropes off Coyote's wrists.

Coyote was too tired, too surprised to even react at first. Bobby's right hand moved just then, and Coyote caught the motion, rolled his head to one side against the back of the chair so he could see. His eyes narrowed when Bobby held the shotgun down and in front of him.

Sam turned, followed Coyote's gaze and frowned. "Put the shotgun away, Bobby."

"Sam what the hell are you doing?"

Sam turned all the way around. He blocked Coyote's body with his own.

"If he's neither good nor evil like you say, then you really think keeping him hog-tied like this is gonna improve his mood? He woke up, he heard you talk about trapping him. How else did you think he was gonna react?" Sam raised the hand that held the ropes he'd just untied, then dropped the ropes to the floor with a shrug.

"Sam, I've been out here hunting longer than you have, longer than your Daddy even," Bobby grated. "I've seen good people suckered in by things wearing a familiar face ---"

"Dean's still inside, Bobby --"

"Dean's _gone_, Sam. He's been swallowed up whole. They don't share the body. The weak one goes. Always. Maybe…maybe it just took longer than usual, because your brother always was so damned stubborn. That -- _thing_ -- isn't your brother anymore. Look at him, Sam, look at those eyes, listen to his voice --"

"Dean's not weak. And he's _not_ gone."

"You don't know that. Why isn't _he_ out here, instead of Coyote?"

"Dean's not gone." Sam spread his hands. "I don't know why Dean's not out here, but he's not gone. I'd know it if he was. Coyote knows Dean well enough. He could pretend he was Dean, but he's not even_ trying_ to trick us. Bobby, think about it. Coyote's a Trickster tied up in a room with two hunters, and all he's doing is just sitting there. You said it yourself, earlier this evening Dean came and got you away from those demons. I don't know how this ensoulment thing works exactly, but I don't think he could've done it if he and Coyote hadn't been working together."

Bobby wouldn't raise the shotgun until he was absolutely certain, until he had no choice. Never point a gun at someone or something unless you intend to pull the trigger. The sight of Sam Winchester standing there, still wearing his shirt with dried blood on the front of it, made Bobby hesitate. He didn't want to hurt the boy. He really didn't.

But he would if he had to.

Bobby's eyes narrowed. He'd come to a decision, a decision he would probably agonize over for the rest of his life, but he was too much of a hunter to back down. Sam caught the look, knew it for what it was. He'd seen the same look on John Winchester's face many times.

Sam was more like John than Bobby ever knew. He'd come to a decision, too.

One of the kitchen drawers behind the older hunter slid open noiselessly. A carving knife levitated up into mid-air, rotating slowly, as it rose above the older man's head.

Coyote laid his head against the high back of the chair. Kid had more stones than he'd given him credit for. A few feet away Dean faded into the headspace. He lay on his side, groggy, disoriented. Coyote picked up the faint smell of sulfur and growled at the scent of that yellow-eyed sumbitch.

"You're not shooting him," Sam said flatly.

Bobby didn't answer.

"I'm not gonna let you hurt him. You've been a good friend, Bobby, the closest thing to a father that we've had since Dad died. You know that. Don't make me choose between you and Dean." Sam shook his head slowly. "Don't."

The carving knife spun faster in mid-air as it gathered momentum.

It was Bobby's turn to growl in frustration.

_Dean? _

Dean groaned. Coyote wasn't even sure the boy heard him.

_Dean, get up. Sam needs you. He's about to do something he can't ever take back._

Dean slowly, painfully, raised himself up onto his elbows. His eyes were half open, unfocused. He moved aimlessly, still struggling to wake up fully.

_Slow, too slow, _Coyote snarled. He snapped at Dean with his mind. Dean jerked away, startled.

_Get up, boy. Your brother needs you. Now get up. Get the hell up, now---_

Neither Sam nor Bobby saw Dean's body arch so painfully the top of his head grazed the high wooden back of the chair. When his eyes opened again the glow was gone. Dean leaned tiredly back against the chair, and he stared dully at the butcher knife turning in mid-air behind Bobby.

The sumbitch demon and his creepy kid were gone. That was a relief. Gone was good. Damn good...

Dean frowned. He felt like shit warmed over. He couldn't understand it…couldn't understand why he'd blacked out at a time like this. _Bobby's here…_w_hat the hell is Bobby doing at Max Miller's house?_

Walking into the Miller house with Sam. Max with his own mother backed up against the kitchen doorway. A carving knife floating in mid-air, pointed directly at one of her eyes, and by the look on Max' tear stained face if they had been a second or two later Max would have just pushed the knife into his mother's eye with much hesitation or thought…

But this…_this_ was wrong, all _wrong_. Bobby hadn't been there the first time…a year ago, that happened over a year ago. Max was dead, blew his own brains out with the pistol he'd taken from Dean, so what the hell was_ this_? Not Max, that's not…

_Sam…it's Sam…_Dean thought dazedly. _I gotta stop this. Gone on for way too long already..._

"Sam, don't," Dean whispered softly, hoarsely. He reached out with one hand, touched Sam in the middle of his back with shaky, numb fingers. "S-Sammy?"

"Dean?" Sam turned his back to Bobby and dropped to his knees in front of Dean.

Tired green eyes stared into worried hazel eyes. "Dude…you look like Max Miller." Dean shook his head slowly. "What the hell d'you think you're doin'? Stop it, Sam."

"Dean, I ---"

"Stop it, Sam. Please..just…stop it."

"I knew you weren't gone. I knew it." The look of extreme relief on Sam's face made Dean's insides clench up.

Behind Bobby, the knife stopped rotating and Sam quietly returned it to the kitchen drawer and closed up the drawer without making a sound.

_Shouldn't be like this_, Dean thought to himself. _I've tried to protect him, keep him as innocent as I could for as long as I could…_

_And you were so busy doing that you forgot to protect yourself,_ that dark silky voice of his purred. Dean knew who it was.

_...place like this brings out the worst in our kind..._

_Whatever, bitch._

Sam kneeled and worked at the ropes around Dean's ankles. "Coyote was out."

"Oh, yeah?" Dean settled back in the chair, gathered his energy, his strength. "I told him to play nice."

"He showed me that trick you used to do for me when we were kids. Dean, I didn't even remember you doing it. After all this time..." Sam was so relieved Dean was back he was babbling.

"Dude, you were six months old. The Old Man's got issues about that wall thing. He's a stubborn bastard."

"That's funny. He said the same thing about you."

Bobby suddenly found it easier to lower the shotgun, and he inwardly cursed himself for that knee-jerk reaction. "You're a piece of work, you know that?" he snarled. "You both are."

Dean raised his head and stared directly at Bobby. That golden glow in Dean's eyes flared up.

Bobby froze in place.

Sam pulled the ropes away, raised his head and stared at Dean's face.

"Dean?"

Sam froze.

"Sam? Stand up. Now."

Sam did. Dean hated the stiff jerky way his brother moved, the stricken look of disbelief on his face. Sam stood up and froze in place, just like Bobby.

"I…I know you won't understand this now." Dean staggered a little as he stood up. Pins and needles in his legs and arms. He shook it off. "But I'm sorry. I have to do this. I have to stop this." Dean shook his head. "Don't be mad at me, Sam. I'm sick, and I'm not going to get any better. Rather be a memory than a burden, y' know?" and his laugh was short, bitter.

Sam stared at him blankly at first. Then he realized what Dean was talking about. Sam begged, he pleaded with his eyes._ Don't do this. Damn it, Dean, don't do this. We can figure something out. There's gotta be another way. You selfish bastard…_

Bobby's stare was steady, hooded, underneath the shadows cast by the bill of his cap.

Dean couldn't look either one of them in the eyes. He felt like nine kinds of a bastard, but that didn't matter. This was the only thing he could do. This was the right thing to do, and he was the only one who could do it.

_You're taking the link to that yellow eyed bastard_, Coyote said simply.

_That's right. You got any better ideas?_

_No. We're not gonna get any better. Can't heal ourselves, and I'll be damned if Ol' Yellow Eyes is gonna collar me like I was some friggin' dog. We're on the downward slide and you know it. _Coyote laughed shortly._ Huh. Didn't want to live forever, anyway._

It was totally fucked up, and he did it by instinct. Seemed there _was_ more in his head than he ever knew. Dean raised his right hand, placed it on Sam's forehead like Roy LaGrange had touched Dean over a year ago. Dean heard his brother's quickening heartbeat, the shush-shush of blood as it flowing through Sam's brain. Electrical energy crackled and pulsed in Sam's brain, behind those too bright, angry sad hazel eyes.

It was all very familiar, all very Sam-like, except for this one tiny pulse of murky yellow energy. It didn't belong and it pulsed and throbbed in Sam's left shoulder. It was about the size of a silver dollar, and Dean knew it didn't have to be very large to cause a lot of damage. They'd slipped it into Sam while he slept in that damn safe house, and he hadn't even been aware that it was there.

Dean placed his left hand on Sam's shirt, pressed the palm of his hand down, fingers spread. He felt a slight tingle in his skin as he pulled the damn thing out. It came out easily, and he did glance up quickly at Sam's face, just to see if he was in any pain, or discomfort. Sam glared at him like he wanted to wring Dean's neck. That expression was better. Better pissed off than sad. Dean could deal with anger. Rage, even.

Dean stepped back, turned his hand over and stared at his palm as the damned thing disappeared beneath his skin. He looked directly at Sam then. What was done was done.

"After I'm gone…" and the look Sam gave him ….God, he looked scared, pissed and sad all at the same time. "After I'm gone you'll be able to leave. Take my car. Don't leave her here. That's the only thing I'm gonna ask of you. You can hate me. You can hate me, Sam, but I did this because I love you."

"Bobby, I'm…I'm sorry. After what I did to you tonight my apology doesn't mean shit, and I know you wanna kick my ass for this. Didn't want to see you get hurt either. Take care of him for me, will 'ya? Make sure he gets out of here in one piece."

Bobby's expression didn't change.

_Don't look back, you stupid bastard,_ Dean told himself as he turned for the door. _Don't_

_look back._

_**Two**_

There was a park several blocks away. Grass, trees. It reminded Dean of the fields in back of Pastor Jim's rectory in Blue Earth. It was as good a spot as any. He headed for this huge old oak tree, and for a moment he stood there with his hand on the tree's trunk, looking up at it, taking one last look around.

Jim Murphy had a tree like this in his front yard. When they were young kids, too young to take along on hunts Dad would drop them off in Blue Earth and Dean and Sam used to climb the damned thing, clamber through those branches whooping and hollering. He remembered sitting underneath the tree reading Sam stories out of that battered old fairy tale book Dad had picked up somewhere. They'd felt safe there, underneath that tree, in that house, sheltered at least, and what with the life they led, you took your safe places where you could find them, because there sure as hell weren't many safe places out there in the world.

This was as good a place as any. Dean reached into his back waistband and filled his hand with the Colt. Fear No Evil. Samuel Colt's special gun.

He sat down with his back against the tree trunk. He raised his left hand and pressed his palm against his forehead. The link slipped easily into place, behind his eyes. Dean sat there, and his eyes became distant. The yellow glow in his eyes flared up, and he felt the link pulse and throb as it responded.

He concentrated on it, reached out for that yellow eyed bastard. Dean couldn't see anything at first. The park and the night all melted into one smeary maroon tinted blur. Then it was like sliding down a dark tunnel filled with wavering, spiky energy that was red at first, then yellow. There was a light at the end of the tunnel, all right, and when Dean burst through he found himself standing on the street.

Found him. The bastard was still in that creepy red-headed kid's body, and the kid stood there staring at the ruins of the safe house.

The kid's shoulders tensed up as he sensed Dean, and when the boy turned around the Demon was smiling.

It saw the Colt and the smile dimmed somewhat. "Wondered what you'd done with that," it drawled. "Little boys playing around with Daddy's gun…" It shook its head with mock concern in its voice. "Don't know if that's such a good idea, Deano. You might hurt yourself, you know."

The Demon's eyes narrowed as it looked Dean up and down. "And you took the link from your brother."

Dean's answering grin was wicked, sharp. "You're not as dumb as you look."

What's dead should stay dead. Third time, last time, last death pays for all. Dean raised the gun as his finger tightened on the trigger.


	24. Chapter 24 Hair of the Dog

Spoilers: Dead Man's Blood, Faith

Disclaimer: Don't own 'em, gotta say this, sorry.

Pop culture reference: "You're so sly…but so am I…" direct quote taken from the "Silence of the Lambs."

Angst Level in this Installment: Defcon Four and climbing

_**Dog Eat Dog**_

_**Chapter 24 Hair of the Dog**_

_**One**_

For a split second Dean wondered how it was going to feel when the last original slug from the Colt punched its way through his skull. He remembered his Dad pulling the trigger, over a year ago, he'd seen how the Colt's bullet worked on that vamp, Luther.

Dean fired the Colt himself when he shot one of the Demon's kids in the alley behind that apartment building; he dropped the bastard without hesitation as it beat Sam, but _that_ was different. That was in broad open daylight. When Dad fired the gun it was the first time, and it was at night; it was more spectacular. Dean could see_ everything, _every detail. The slug cratered that long-dead skin that was only masquerading as living flesh, that odd white light backlit Luther's skin, bones and eyes as the bullet burrowed deep into him.

Fair enough.

Dean always _did_ want to go out in a blaze of glory.

Especially if he could take _this_ particular sumbitch with him.. .

The kid backed up, yellow eyes wide in disbelief. Dean cocked his head to one side as he angled the barrel of the Colt towards his own head.

It was funny, but he thought he felt Sam close by then. Thought he could actually feel Sam standing directly behind him. Sam's panic and anger washed over Dean in waves, and Dean suddenly found himself unable to move.

_Not gonna do this, Dean. Not gonna let you…_

Dean's eyes widened. His back arched slightly in the grip of whatever the hell this was. Strong arms wrapped around his midsection like bands of steel, locked his arms in place, forced his right arm down. His finger was crooked in the air space inside the trigger, and he could. Not. Fucking. Move.

And that yellow eyed bastard started grinning.

"Sam, no…what the hell are you doing?"

"Got to be a better way than this," Sam grated in Dean's ear, and Dean turned his head slightly to the side, he could do that, at least, but that slight motion was useless, it wasn't enough for what he wanted to do, needed to do, put the friggin'gun to his head and pull the trigger, and he saw Sam's profile, saw Sam's eyes, but they were hazel, they were normal, not black, not yellow, they were bright with anger and the kid was furious, he was supremely, royally pissed off…

_Bobby…_

Dean couldn't see him, he could feel him, a shadow, a shifting wisp of gray smoke, more like an impression standing in front of him, and something cold, hard and metallic was pressed underneath Dean's shirt against the bare skin of his chest, and ice blue energy crawled all over his skin, took his breath away, sent him to his knees.

Coyote went down in the headspace, his eyes glazed over, panting heavily, his golden eyes filmed over, a shade of icy blue.

Dean's head rocked back as he was jerked sideways and backwards. Everything went yellow, then red, then finally grey around the edges.

He slumped forward, his forehead almost touching the grass, and Sam held him tight from behind, both with his arms and his mind as Bobby leaned down and wrestled the Colt from Dean's weak, useless fingers.

"…no…idea…" Dean whispered brokenly. "You have…no fucking idea…what you just did…could have done it…could have stopped all this…"

And all he could remember was the smile on that damned yellow eyed bastard's face before everything turned gray and faded out…

_**Two**_

"Oh, my precious, precious boys. You are sooo predictable. Especially _you_, eldest."

Azazel walked up the front stairs to the ruined safe house. The link nestled at the base of Aaron's neck now, a knot of murky yellow energy that throbbed and pulsed.

Annie and Maureen came out from the house next door, where they'd been hiding. Maureen was just as rock solid dependable as always, and she'd healed up just fine. The idea that the town was dead all around her didn't seem to bother her; she'd dealt with change all her life. Annie was new to the game; she stared around wide-eyed, still a little freaked out.

Sam hadn't completely trashed the house. It was really considerate of him, the Demon thought, to have left parts of the house still standing, in relatively good condition. Like that closet in the back, for instance.

It walked Aaron back to the closet, opened the door. The boy whimpered a little when he saw the enclosed space, when the Demon closed the door behind him, and Azazel put on his soothing voice.

"It's okay. You only have to stay in here for an hour or so, just long enough for Dean to darken. He scared you with that gun, didn't he? Bastard. We're going to make sure that he'll never do that ever again. He's going to be your new big brother, you know that?" it lied.

The boy nodded.

"Good boy."

Aaron's right hand bled freely as Azazel summoned it out of thin air. The chain rattled on the floor. Azazel snapped the collar open, ignored the blood as several of the thorns pierced the boy's skin.

"You're so sly…but so am I…" Azazel laughed. Aaron barely moaned as the collar went around his neck, the thorns piercing his skin in a circular pattern. Aaron sat down in the corner of the closet, his knees pulled up to his chest. The boy's mouth stretched open wide and Azazel came boiling out, slipped underneath the door in a smooth, flowing motion.

_Stay put, boy_, Azazel told Aaron. It knew he would. The three remaining kids – Aaron, Maureen and Annie – were the three that would do whatever it asked it do, without question. The cream of the crop, at least of their generation.

Outside Maureen stood calm and still as Azazel curved through the air towards her; she opened her mouth and allowed him inside. Her eyes blazed yellow again, and she smiled as she took Annie's hand in hers.

"Where---where are we going now?" Annie looked around nervously.

Azazel smiled. "We're going to see a man about a dog. Come on."

_**Three**_

Shadows all around him--

_Sam… Bobby…_

-- and Dean lashed out with his fists. He knew who they were, and he struck out anyway as he jerked upright in the chair, a growl deep in his throat that echoed the growl Coyote was making at the same time.

"Fuck, stop hoverin' over me. _Back off_," he snarled, and they did.

They were back in that house, that kitchen, with those insanely cheerful yellow curtains. Dean put his elbows on the table and cradled his aching head. The link pulsed and throbbed behind his right eye, made it water slightly. Whatever they'd used to stop him still hung around his neck. The metal made his skin feel cold, and tight, and for some reason he couldn't touch it. He didn't want to.

At least they hadn't tied him back up. There was _that_, at least.

Something chuffed, and Bobby's dog stood behind Bobby, staring at him with her head cocked to one side, her large ears pricked. Hell, even the dog was looking at him like he'd lost his fucking mind.

Dean pulled his hands away from his face and shot her a dirty look. The big dog whined and backed up. Sam had his extreme pissy face on him, but Bobby's look was thoughtful. No anger, no heat.

The look on his face pissed Dean off anyway.

Bobby leaned forward. "Figured you might go for twice in one night. Got an amulet that shielded me. I wasn't frozen. I unfroze Sam, and Condie tracked you."

Dean laughed weakly. "Tricky old bastard." His voice was hoarse, rough, almost a growl, and for a fleeting moment Sam could see Coyote in him and he had to wonder exactly where Dean ended and Coyote began, and whether Dean was even aware of it.

Sam glared at him. "You were going to use the link and shoot yourself with the Colt? _That_ was your plan? Dean, do you have _anything_ that doesn't involve committing suicide on your part?"

"My life, Sammy. My choice." Dean mumbled softly. He put both elbows down on the table and leaned forward.

"You're a selfish bastard, you know that? Did you ever stop to think about _me_? How I'd feel, knowing you killed yourself because of me?"

Dean stared at him levelly. "I did this for you. And…and I can see now…it's not enough. I've given everything I've ever had, and it's never been enough. Not for you, not for Dad."

"Wh-what? You…you actually believe that?"

"Give me back the Colt and let me finish what I started."

"No, Dean. Give me back the link."

"Hell, no." Dean's smile was tight, bitter as he shook his head. His gaze slid past Sam to Bobby, and he bristled. "You got anything to say to me, Bobby? You look like a man with somethin' on your mind."

Bobby pushed his cap back on his head. "No, Dean, You convinced me. You really did. You and Coyote_ are_ working together. I don't know how, but you two are. Two muleheaded idiots occupying the same body. Heaven help us all after this is over with."

"I'm sick. Poisoned. In another few days I'll be so confused I won't even remember my own name."

"We'll find a cure for this. Gotta be one. Just like we did before, with your heart…."

"Roy LeGrange is permanently out of business, Sam. What, you think you're just gonna waltz outta here and find some other hoodoo witch doctor that can take this mojo off me? This is dark magic, Sam. Pitch dark. Keyed especially to me. And Coyote." Dean shrugged. "I'm fucked, and you may as well accept that. Give me back the Colt and I'll finish what I started."

Sam lifted his chin defiantly, shook his head _no_.

Dean bared his teeth. "And you call _me_ a stubborn bastard. What'cha gonna do, Sammy? You gonna lug me all over the countryside, going from one faith healer quack to another?Hendricksen's still right on our asses. You wanna do me a favor? Let him catch me. Better yet, drop me off at his office. I'll be completely out of my head by then. Slobbering, pissing on myself, the whole nine yards. They'll declare me unfit to stand trial. I'll probably end up in a mental hospital. You can tell 'em I made you do all that stuff. Get yourself a good lawyer, head on into court wearing a suit and that puppy dog look of yours."

Sam flinched, and Dean felt oddly satisfied when he saw that. "With a good lawyer, you'd probably get five years tops maybe. You don't have a record like I do. You might even get probation. I'm the crazy one. You're Joe Normal." Dean shrugged. "It's doable."

Sam narrowed his eyes, shook his head. His tone was a mixture of wonder and disgust. "Why are you even sayin' these things to me?"

"Or better yet, drop me off at the roadhouse." Dean let out a sharp bark of laughter. "Hell, those hunters will take one look at my eyes and put me outta my misery in a heartbeat ---"

"All right," Bobby said quietly. "That's enough."

"It is?" Dean said with mock innocence. "I'm just letting Sam know he's got options, Bobby. Only thing is, they're not the kinda options he wants to deal with."

"This martyr thing of yours…you've done this same kind of stupid macho crap your entire life, and I just don't get it, Dean."

"Not much to get, Sam. You can't save everyone. Tonight I tried. Even with everything I can do, I fucked it up. That yellow eyed bastard massacred this town. Because of me."

"Because of us," Sam murmured.

"Because of me," Dean repeated. "Those people at that Wal-Mart store? I thought I was savin' them. I doomed every last one'a them instead. They'll die, just like you will, if you don't give me back the Colt and let me end this."

Sam leaned forward, stared his brother directly in the eyes. "No. Way. In. Hell."

Dean stared right back at him, then sat back heavily in the chair. This throat hurt. Felt scratchy, like he'd swallowed thorns or something. Dean knew he should be concerned about that, but he wasn't, and he didn't know_ why_ he wasn't. He didn't care. His arms and legs were lead weights, and it was too much effort to even argue anymore.

It was hard to hold onto the words. Harder still to say them, but he had to say them out loud, before he forgot.

"…hellmouth…nearby…" The memory was hard to hold onto. Dean remembered smooth supple fur underneath his hands, purring, and large bright eyes. "They're…coming up…coming out…"

"A hellmouth?" Bobby scowled. "Dean? Where?"

"Wal-Mart…" Dean mumbled softly. "I…fucking…hate…Wal-Mart…"

"Sam, get your brother and help him get into the truck." Bobby moved around the kitchen, packing things into his duffel. "Time we took a little trip."

Sam moved towards him, and it seemed little brother was moving in extreme slow motion. Dean felt Sam's arms go around him, felt himself being lifted up out of the chair. Dean wanted to twist away, wanted to tell Sam not to touch him, but he couldn't even find the energy to say it, much less move. He heard voices rising and falling with every breath he took, every beat of his heart. The voices rose to a fever pitch, and drowned everything else out….

_**Four**_

"Dean?"

One of the voices knew his name, and for a moment he was afraid. He didn't want to answer. Didn't sound like Coyote. The Old Man wasn't saying very much. If he ignored it, maybe it would go away…

"Dean? Come on, dude, don't zone out on me now."

Damn thing sounded like Sam. Felt like Sam.

He opened his eyes.

"Hello, princess. Glad you could make it back."

Everything was a blur at first. He couldn't see worth a damn. Dean swallowed thickly. "Where are we?"

"Your favorite place. Wal-Mart," Sam smirked. "We went back to the Rodeway Inn and got the Impala and the rest of our gear."

"Baby." Dean put one shaky hand out, stroked the dashboard. His fingertips tingled, like his hand had fallen asleep. "Hi, sweetheart. Missed you."

Bobby came up to the driver's side, the shotgun down at his side. He leaned down, looked in at the brothers. "Nobody in the parking lot. Lot of dead dogs lying around. Dean, what the hell went on here?"

"Possessed. Had to shoot 'em."

_All of 'em?_ Bobby made one eyebrow climb. "And that big glass crater over in the center of the lot?"

Sam mouthed the words _glass crater?_ and turned and looked at Dean, puzzled.

Dean sank back against the seat, and just shrugged his shoulders.

Bobby said dryly, "When we get clear of this mess, boy, we all have got a _lot_ to talk about."

_One more thing to look forward to_, Dean thought wearily. Well, at least he said "when" and not "if".

"You boys stay in the car. Keep an eye out."

"Bobby," Dean said slowly.

Bobby turned around.

"Don't…don't go inside the building. Don't…"

"I'm just going to take a look around, Dean." Bobby disappeared into the night like a ghost.

"That scene between me 'n Bobby back there in the house…Was that what it was like for you stepping in between me and Dad?" Sam asked softly.

Dean nodded. "Pretty much." He scowled. "Minus the flyin' daggers of doom, of course. Damn, Sam, what the hell was _that_ all about?"

"I wasn't going to let Bobby hurt you, Dean."

"So, uh, let me get this straight. Standing between a ticked off demigod and an equally pissed off hunter with a loaded shotgun was a… _good_ thing?"

Sam shrugged. "Maybe…" Sam looked away to the side. "Maybe I'm being a bastard about this, but I…I feel like I've lost so many people, Dean. Mom. Dad. Jessica… And now I'm supposed to just stand by and let Bobby shoot you?" Sam shook his head. "That's not even an option."

"We might not have a lot of options in this thing, Sam."

"What's_ that_ supposed to mean?"

"You can't save everyone."

_Not even me…_

..._Cere…_

"What?" Dean jerked upright.

_Cere, why did you leave us?_

…_Cere…_

There was a thump on the Impala's hood. Sam stared at what had landed on the hood and slowly moved his hand towards the spare shotgun he knew Dean kept under the bench seat.

"No, Sam, don't…" The tone of Dean's voice stopped him, not the words. "Redd…"

The thing on the hood looked like a cross between a big cat and a human woman. Its arms were as long as its legs, and her body from the neck down was covered in sleek auburn fur. The face was human, beautiful, heart-shaped, large golden eyes framed by ridiculously long lashes. Full lips, and a long wavy cascade of auburn colored hair. Her long tail waved in mid-air behind her. She hissed when she looked at Sam, one corner of those full lips curled back in a snarl, showing sharp canine teeth.

…_Cere… _

She looked at Dean and purred so loudly the inside of the Impala vibrated.

"Redd," Dean breathed, softly, longingly. Sam just stared. Dean's face was vulnerable, open with need and want, something he never would have even shown in front of Sam if he'd been in control of himself.

Cere," she purred as she stared at him. "Coming back. Two hearts soon."

She put her hand up, palm out, fingers spread, on the windshield, and Dean shakily copied the motion, put his palm up against hers.

Redd hissed at Sam, then stared adoringly at Dean again. "See you soon, Cere."

"R--Redd…"

The thing turned and bounded off the hood of the Impala in one quick motion. She --it -- disappeared into the night, and Sam's eyes widened when he saw Dean turn and weakly fumble at the door on his side.

Sam put his hand on Dean's shoulder, which was risky enough as it was. He'd learned from painful experience that it was better to warn Dean verbally before you put your hands on him, but he wasn't about to let Dean leave the car to go after that...thing.

"Dean?"

No response.

"Dude, what the hell are you doing? Dean?" Sam's grip on Dean's shoulder tightened.

Dean turned around to face Sam again when Dean opened the door halfway and Sam just leaned over and past him and forcibly pulled the door shut. Dean stared strangely at Sam, as though he was startled to see Sam there, in that place.

"Who was that, Dean?" Sam asked softly. "What do you think you're doing?"

"I...I left her before...let her down...keep letting everyone down..." Dean slurred. He was hitting rock bottom again, his energy level sinking fast. His eyes closed, and he slumped against the seat.

A moment later Bobby reappeared out of the gloom. He had the shotgun raised up, and a tense look on his face.

"Sam, let's go. We gotta get the hell outta here. Right now."

Sam couldn't argue with _that_.

_**Five**_

An hour later Sam and Bobby stood outside their vehicles and stared at the end of the road.

Literally.

Six miles outside of Vashon the road ended in a dense thick wall cloud that stretched upwards and sideways as far as the eye could see. It cut across the highway, across trucks, cars and buildings. The world ended inside that wall of dense grey fog, and both Bobby and Sam knew it.

It was a simple thing really. Fog. Mist. Their rational minds told them that. They should have been able to just get in their vehicles and drive right though. Their gut feeling was different. The sight of that wall cloud made the hair on the back of Sam and Bobby's heads stand straight up. It scared the hell out of them. Bobby had pulled his truck up half a mile away, pulled over to the side of the road and as far as Sam was concerned that was too damn close.

They knew if they drove in there, they'd never find their way out. They'd be lost inside there forever, and even seeing that maroon sky over the remains of Vashon was preferable to _that_.

Sam glanced back at Dean. Dean was asleep, sitting upright on the passenger side of the front bench of the Impala, the back of his head resting against the top of the seat. Sam hadn't wanted to wake him.

"Thought you said you didn't have anything that could handle Coyote?" Sam whispered.

Bobby shrugged. He kept his voice low. "I didn't. I improvised. I combined a few of the charms and amulets I had with the eye of Abraxas."

"What if it hadn't worked?"

Bobby shrugged again.

"You think you might get lucky like that again? We could find a cure for that poison?"

Bobby sighed. "Sam, I don't know. I said I'd help. I meant that. We'll try everything I can think of. I'll help you boys as much as I can."

"Thanks, Bobby." Sam let out the breath he'd been holding in. He wasn't aware he'd even been holding it in. His large shoulders slumped slightly as he jammed his hands into his jacket pockets. He'd changed out of that blood stained shirt, finally. "There's a church a few miles back. We can hole up there. Consecrated ground. Might provide some protection. Saw a convenience store back there too. We could get salt, lay in supplies. Food." Sam shrugged. "Have a feeling we're gonna need all that and then some."

"Hellmouth that size," Bobby said thoughtfully. "I don't know, some of the smaller ones can open up on their own, like portals. Big one like that," Bobby scowled. "Take an awful lot of energy to open it up, usually from this side…"

Neither man saw the air over the Impala's hood shimmer.

Dean stirred in his sleep. Goblins. One of his first hunts, he and John had gone after a pack of goblins up in Minnesota. Damn things had been all over the place. This was the last damn one, the leader of the pack, apparently, and Dean had somehow gotten separated from John during the hunt.

Dean couldn't understand how it got here, on the hood of the Impala. Ragged clothing made from human skin stitched together hung off its scrawny gaunt frame, and its stubby bob tail switched back and forth. It turned and fixed its large day glo orange eyes at Bobby and Sam's backs, and then turned and leered at Dean, its large ears pinned back against its head. _Gotcha now, boy_, that look said. _I gotcha now. Fix you good for what you did. Fix you all. Eat good tonight. _

_Go away_, Dean thought dazedly in his sleep. _Go away._

The thing gave Dean a dirty look before it vanished into thin air.

**_Next chapter:_**

Things go from bad to worse as Bobby and Sam have to deal with a feverish Coyote/Dean as he manifests his innermost demons and pain. Some are just illusions, and some of them are real, and can kill. Trapped inside the church, Bobby and Sam have to figure out which is which before they get killed.


	25. Chapter 25 Flashback Something Wicked

A/N: I've tweaked canon a little bit here, folks. Don't know how long John ignored Dean after the shtriga nearly got Sammy, but judging from Dean's reaction and the fact that he still remembers it over 20 years later, I'm betting John probably ignored the kid for about a month. Dean's near psychotic desperation is pure speculation on my part.

I decided to post this chapter separately so that the next chapter with all the dream sequences in it wouldn't be so quite long.

alain-chaser, this one's for you.

_**Then: **_Coyote and Dean forcibly take the link to YED from Sam, manifest the special Colt and try to commit suicide with it so they can take YED with them. Bobby and Sam arrive in time to stop them. The hunters try to leave town and discover that they can't.

**Now:** Things go from bad to worse as Bobby and Sam have to deal with a feverish Coyote/Dean as he manifests his innermost demons and pain. Some are just illusions, and some of them are real, and can kill. Trapped inside the church, Bobby and Sam have to figure out which is which before they get killed.

_**Dog Eat Dog**_

_**Chapter 25 Flashback in Real Time: Something Wicked**_

The good news was that Pope St. Pius V Church was just the right size for what Bobby and Sam had in mind. It wasn't so big that they couldn't cover all the windows, and doors with salt lines, and there was even a small rectory next door, which could provide a place to retreat to if things _really_ went south.

The bad news was there was nobody there.

Shotgun raised, Bobby went in first, with Condie. He came out twenty minutes later with the shotgun down by his side, and a somber look on his face. He shook his head_ no_.

Dean was pretty much dead weight as Sam helped him out of the Impala. He slipped in and out of consciousness, and the fever blush to his skin worried the hell out of Sam. Sam hooked one of Dean's arms over his shoulder and lifted him up. Dean stumbled as Sam walked him up the stairs, and Sam kept a firm grip on his arm and around his waist..

"…no, Dad, please…" Dean mumbled softly. "Please, Dad…" He sounded like a small child trying desperately to get his parent's attention. Sam wondered what _that _was all about.

The air inside the church was still and cool. The place felt calm and peaceful, even though the fact that there was nobody in there was just as depressing as hell. During a disaster, a church would be one of the first places people would go to.

Not this time.

Sam maneuvered Dean over to the first row of wooden benches, and he sat him down very carefully in the first row, slumped over into the corner of the pew. Bobby came in with the duffels, with Condie trailing along behind him like a big black shadow.

"I'll help you unload the rest of the stuff, put the lines of salt down," Sam said as he turned around. He looked down at Dean. "Fever's getting worse. We're gonna have to bring it down somehow."

"We can use the shower in the rectory next door," Bobby said, and Sam nodded.

Bobby looked at his dog. "Condie?" The big dog sat up eagerly, ears pricked. Bobby nodded at Dean. "Condie. Guard him." She wheeled around smartly, went over to Dean and sat down at his feet.

Forty five minutes later the Impala and Bobby's truck sat parked in the lot behind the building, close to the back doors. Bobby and Sam had unloaded the food and supplies in the kitchen. The rectory's kitchen was fully stocked, and Sam felt a deep pang of, well, yeah, say it, _guilt_ that whoever lived there was most likely _never_ coming back.

_Because of me_, Dean had said.

_No, bro'_, Sam thought to himself. _Because of us. Not gonna let you take this one on all by yourself. _

They stepped into the hallway leading back to the church, and at first Sam thought the shiver that ran up his spine was just nerves. That was all. They'd gone through some heavy duty shit in the past few hours, and things were probably only going to get worse. He shook it off, and he glanced sideways at Bobby.

Rock solid dependable Bobby. Couldn't have made it this far without him. Sam took another step down the hallway, and he felt the air shimmer around him ---

---what the fuck? ---

And the room blurred, then just as quickly snapped back into crystal clear focus.

Which was good. The only thing was, they weren't in the rectory anymore.

Sam heard something click behind them, and he glanced at Bobby as Bobby turned around at the same time. There was a door behind them, one that hadn't been there before. And the damn thing had just locked itself.

His eyes felt tired and gritty, and Sam rubbed at them gingerly. He blinked a few times, and when his vision cleared he felt a small pit form in his stomach.

They were in a motel room. This particular motel room looked exactly like the same one that he and Dean stayed in the last time they were in Fitchburg, Wisconsin.

Bobby stared at something directly in front of them. "What the hell," he whispered softly. "Sam…"

Sam turned around. He stared.

A kid sat there on the foot of the bed with a pump action shotgun cradled in his lap. He was about nine years old. He wore a blue and white plaid shirt over a black t shirt and the knees poked through the fabric of his worn blue jeans.

"I could…do it out in the yard," the kid whispered hoarsely, to no one in particular. He looked down at the gun and idly rubbed one hand up and down the stock. "Dad wouldn't have a mess to clean up."

Sam's eyes narrowed.

Dark blond hair. Wide green eyes, spray of freckles across the nose…

"Dean," Sam whispered. "_Damn._ You didn't tell me you felt _that_ bad. Bad enough to do _this_…"

The kid sat there for a moment, staring down at the shotgun as if it were the promise of a better life, then he looked up and around wildly, as though he had suddenly just become aware that Bobby and Sam were standing there. He held the shotgun in both hands, but he kept it pointed down, towards the floor. _You don't point a gun at something unless you mean to shoot what you're pointing at,_ Dad had said.

"Easy, son." Bobby said calmly. "Take it easy."

"Who…who are _you_?" Nine year old Dean tightened his grip on the shotgun, placed his hands so he could raise it and fire if he had to.

"We're friends of your Dad," Sam said calmly. His smile was wide and easy as he knelt down. "My name's Sam."

"That's…that's my little brother's name, too." Dean looked around the room warily. "This your place?"

Sam nodded. "Yeah, for now." Then, cautiously: "What's going on between you and your Dad, Dean?"

The kid's eyes took on a haunted look then, one that Sam knew only too well. Dean dropped his eyes and stared at the floor.

"Let me guess…" Sam said softly. "You made a mistake. You left your brother Sam alone while Da--- your Dad was out hunting a shtriga…".

_It was the 3rd night in this crap-room and I was climbing the walls, man. I needed to get some air… _

"And now you think that your Dad is gonna hate you forever, and the only way out is to use…_that_…" Sam nodded towards the shotgun, "on yourself." The kid's shoulders sagged. "Dean, you really think that killing yourself is gonna solve all this?"

"I didn't mean it…I didn't…"

"I know you didn't. Sam's okay. You don't have to do this to yourself."

"I disobeyed a direct order. My Dad depends on me.…."

"I know he does. You made a mistake. Sam's okay. Dude, you're what? Nine?"

'That's…that's no excuse. You don't know what it's like. He…he won't talk to me. He won't even look at me." Dean looked down at the gun, then up again at Sam." Shadows crossed those wide green eyes. "I can't take it anymore…I can't…"

The far corner of the room shimmered like a heat mirage in the desert. A quick succession of scenes…five year old Sam sitting in John's lap in some diner on the road somewhere in one scene, at a rest stop near the highway in another scene.

In the beginning Dean talked to his Dad. At least, he tried to.

He didn't touch him to get John's attention. Dean knew better than that.

He still pulled his own weight, carried his own duffel, gathered up his things and Sam's. None of that mattered. Dean got quiet soon after that, and Sam could actually see him withdraw inside himself, saw those green eyes of his become dull and dead, and it was one of the worst things Sam had ever seen in his entire life.

John focused all his attention on Sam. If Dean sat next to John, John moved away from him. It was as though the boy didn't even exist anymore. John ignored him, lavished all his attention on Sam. The more attention Sam got, the louder the five year old became. Dean sat there quietly, staring at the worn tabletop, shoulders slumped.

When it was time to do laundry, John bundled the clothes and Sam up, and left Dean at the cabin, in the motel room, where ever. Sometimes Dean was quick enough to get into the Impala before John pulled away. Sometimes he wasn't quick enough. It was the same story each and every time John went to get supplies, went to the library to do research, or went out to get food.

John didn't even acknowledge Dean's presence when they were in a diner and it was time to order. Dean had to order for himself, and when he did it was in a small broken voice that Sam had never heard coming out of his brother before. John put enough money down on the table to cover Dean's meal. That was the only thing he did that even remotely acknowledged Dean's existence.

At one point John unloaded his and Sam's duffel when they pulled up in front of a motel room. He held Sam in his arms and walked briskly to the door. Dean sat in the Impala, stared sadly after his father, and finally got out and lifted his own duffel bag to his shoulder. The Impala's door creaked as he swung it closed and his walk to the door was slow, leaden, like an old man, not like a nine year old boy.

"John, you jackass," Bobby muttered softly under his breath.

Sam shook his head. "Bobby, I don't remember any of this…" he said softly, almost too low to be heard.

Dean didn't seem to notice the mirage. "Better off without me," he murmured softly.

"What? Dean, no…"

"They're better off without me –"

At one point inside the mirage Dean put himself between John and the door, which was a desperation move if Sam ever saw one. "Dad, I'm…I'm sorry. I didn't mean it." The boy's voice cracked, full of pain and despair. Sam almost flinched. Dean was actually begging. Begging his father to acknowledge his presence, pleading for John to forgive him, and right then and there, even though he loved his father and missed him, Sam actually felt a sharp stab of hatred for the man. "I'll do whatever you say from now on. Whatever you say, whenever you say it. Please, Dad, please…."

John pointedly ignored him. He shifted Sammy in his arms, lengthened his stride and walked around Dean as though he didn't even exist. The boy stood there, shoulders slumped, and he watched as his father unlocked the door to the motel room and then closed the door behind him.

The images in the corner gradually faded away.

"Don't wanna be…a burden anymore…"

"You're not a burden to anyone. You never have been." Sam was still surprised at how calm he sounded. Dean was on the brink. All he had to do was lift the shotgun and jam it underneath his chin, and pull the trigger, and even at nine years old Dean was better with firearms at that age than most adults. Sam had no doubt Dean could do it. "Your Dad loves you. Your brother Sam loves you. How long has this been going on?"

"A…a month…"

_Damn you, Dad, _Sam thought._ "_Dean, could you give me the shotgun?"

"No." Dean shrank back. "Dad said…Dad taught me not to give up my gun to somebody I don't know. You say you know my Dad, but I don't know you."

Bobby straightened up. "You remember_ me_, don't you, Dean? I'm Bobby. Bobby Singer. Your dad brought you to my place several times. I run an auto yard, remember? You and Sam used to play with my dogs."

"Sammy?" Dean's eyes actually brightened, lost some of that dullness. "Where is he?"

"Your Dad took Sam over to Pastor Jim's at Blue Earth," Sam lied. The kid's shoulders sagged. "And when he gets back, you're going to spend some time with him. He's sorry about the way he treated you, Dean. He didn't realize you felt this bad about it. Sometimes…sometimes Dads screw up."

Dean's back stiffened up. "Not my Dad." Bobby made a scoffing sound and the kid gave him a funny look.

"Even your Dad. He told me how bad he felt." Sam said evenly. "He got upset because he loves you, but he never meant to hurt you. And he wouldn't want you to hurt yourself. So, do me a favor, huh? Put the shotgun down. Don't do anything until you see your Dad and you talk to him." When Sam said that Dean actually sat up a little straighter, and his eyes lost some of that dull, dead look.

Bobby turned slightly as, behind them, the door to the room unlocked itself with an audible click.

Sam didn't stand up again until Dean laid the shotgun on the bed.

The entire room wavered and disappeared. They found themselves standing in the same hallway of the rectory. The same table, with its bowl of flowers, the same wallpaper. Everything was the same as before.

"Sam," Bobby hissed, "What the _hell _was that all about?"

"It's Dean, Bobby. Somehow he just manifested that whole scene in there, just like the Trickster at Crawford Hall did."

Bobby had his hand on the door and the knob turned easily enough. He was halfway through when the door slammed backwards into his face with enough force to make his knees buckle.

Whoever was on the other side did it again, and Sam could tell by the boneless way the older man dropped that Bobby was down and out of it, for the moment, anyway.

Whatever this was fast, almost a blur. Sam felt a fist slam into his face, and the world went away for a while…

Sam came back to himself with Metallica ringing in his ears.

The song was "Some Kind of Monster," only Sam had the feeling that this bastard wasn't nervous, this was his theme song, and as soon as Sam felt hands grab at his shoulders, as soon as he was jerked around, over on his back and he saw his brother's face, those wide green eyes, that smirk, but it wasn't Dean, he knew it wasn't, Sam knew the shit had already hit the fan.

"Hey, Sammy," the shapeshifter from St. Louis grinned. "Did you miss me?"

0000000

Next Up: Dean and Coyote continue to manifest things out of thin air. It gets worse...


	26. Ch 26Butterfly Trapped in a Spider Web

Spoilers: Pre-Pilot, Pilot, Skin, Asylum, Shadow

Winchester Angst Level in this Installment: Defcon Five and still climbing

A/N: The chapter title is taken from, appropriately enough, "King of Pain" by the Police.

Oh, yeah, thanks to everyone who have reviewed so far, and everyone who has this story on their alert lists! I hope these two chapters have the right mix of insanity, confusion, and violence. I know you guys will review and let me know what you think.

_**Then: **_Holed up in the church with Bobby and Sam, Dean physically manifests the pain he felt when John punished him for nearly getting Sam killed by the shtriga over twenty years ago. YED puts its end of the link and the collar onto the boy Aaron, puts the boy into a closet in the safe house Sam nearly demolished, and starts the process of darkening Coyote and Dean at the other end of the link.

**Now:** Bobby and Sam have to deal with a feverish Coyote/Dean as he manifests his innermost demons and pain. Some are just illusions, and some of them are real, and can kill. The shapeshifter from St. Louis gleefully torments Sam with Dean's darkest thoughts. Dean is visited by a vision in white and a devil in a plaid shirt. And Bobby finds out just how dangerous Winchester family life can be…

_**Dog Eat Dog**_

_**Chapter 26 …a butterfly trapped in a spider's web…**_

_**One**_

Throat hurt like a sumbitch. Scratchy. Raw. He tasted metal in his mouth and his head felt all floaty and strange. Dean levered himself upright, slowly, his weak muscles quivered and trembled with the effort. There was a weight on his chest, around his neck. Metal. Metal touching his bare skin. He thought about reaching underneath his t shirt and pulling the eye of Abraxas off, but even the thought of raising his arm was tiring. Maybe later.

Dean sat there blinking slowly until his eyes adjusted.

He was in a church. Huh.

Something chuffed down near his feet, and he froze. Something big and black, with limpid golden brown eyes and a long pink tongue. He felt like a damn fool as Bobby's dog grinned up at him.

She got up and put her head on his knee. Dean leaned forward a little, _that's far enough, dude, _he told himself groggily, and his fingers shook slightly as he reached out and scratched the dog behind the ear. "What 'ya lookin' at, huh, girl?" he mumbled softly, and her grin got even wider.

Even those small motions wiped him out, took whatever energy he had left. Dean fell back heavily against the pew and the dog once again settled down at his feet. He closed his eyes and listened to the tired way his lungs wheezed as he pulled air in and out. He was pretty sure that wheezing like that was_ not_ a good sign.

He felt lightheaded and sluggish at the same time. His right eye watered slightly. There was something he should have remembered, something about a link of some sort, and a collar, but he couldn't remember exactly what it was and the collar was probably for the dog. He couldn't even remember if she already had a collar, if he'd seen one, and he was too wiped out to sit up again and take another look at her. It was hard to think, even harder to hold onto whatever he was thinking about.

Feeling weak and feverish from wounds he'd received during a hunt was nothing new. Sometimes infection set in no matter how carefully he or Dad tended to the wounds with holy water. It was probably due to the toxic crap in the fuglies they hunted, their saliva, a poison in their skin, underneath their claws,_ something_. Sometimes the antibiotics worked, and sometimes they didn't.

Damn, **this** time seemed so fucking…permanent. He wasn't going to recover from this. He knew it. He felt it.

He opened his eyes again and stared at the altar in front of him.

The face of the statue of the Virgin Mary cracked on a diagonal slant, right down the middle.

_I didn't mean to do that,_ Dean thought dully. _Is that like, seven years bad luck, or something? Seven hundred years, the way my luck's been runnin' lately. _

He closed his eyes, then opened them again as he jerked forward, wildly. For just a moment there he wanted to hide, suddenly wanted to go someplace dark, confined, where no one could find him. He felt exposed, miserable out there in that wide open space.

Sam and Bobby would be better off without him.

He frowned as the voices grated and wailed inside his head. His brain bled every time they echoed inside his skull.

_Dean, you have to stop this…_

…_you're killing us…you're killing Sam…_

_...none of this is real…_

He leaned forward, his elbows on his thighs, and he didn't like the way his body shook. He trembled worse than an old man more than twice his age.

Slim hands dropped out of nowhere onto his shoulders, and the touch settled him, made him feel safe. Secure. She radiated peace and comfort, not fear and panic and death. Dean allowed himself to be pulled gently, slowly backwards, and he leaned back against the pew with a heavy sigh, before he tilted his head back and looked up.

"M-Mom?"

"Hello, sweetie."

_**Two**_

Sam glared at it and the 'shifter shrugged. "That's it? Nothin' else to say? This is the part where you say that I'm not your brother. No?"

Sam's stare was furious and steady. He didn't say _Fuck you_ out loud. He didn't have to.

"Aw, well. I told you before. Your brother has a lot of good qualities." The 'shifter smirked. His grin was a lot meaner than Dean's. Its eyes went silver from the light overhead, then went back to green, bright and obscenely cheerful.

"You should have appreciated him more than you did. That advice he gave you about turning him over to the Feds and copping a plea? Man, that was a friggin'classic." The 'shifter shook his head in admiration and raised the glass of whiskey to its lips.

Sam stared. When the hell had the bastard even poured the drink out of the bottle?

Sam looked down and saw that he wasn't tied up, and the shifter drained the whiskey glass as Sam shakily got to his feet. It didn't seem the least bit concerned when Sam reached out and pulled out the butcher knife that was embedded blade first into the corner of the counter top.

They weren't in the church anymore. Sam's stomach clenched as he realized they were in Rebecca's house in St. Louis. Sam was alone; Bobby was nowhere to be found.

"He's right, you know." The 'shifter gestured with the glass. It was half full. Again. "You stroll into federal court in a suit, lookin' all normal and shit, with your lawyer at your side, I bet you'd be in and out of prison before you're thirty. And then, bucko, you can have your normal life." The 'shifter's face fell a little, and he frowned. "Well, you _woulda_ had a normal life, but you're not_ gonna_. Ya see, Sammy, you're not gonna leave here alive. I'm not gonna let you."

"Come on, you lying son of a bitch…" Sam grated out. He flexed his wrists, rolled his shoulders, and the thing laughed.

"Feelin' a little inadequate? You should be. You didn't leave John and Dean because you wanted a normal life. You left because you weren't _Dean_. Dean was the son Johnny boy always wanted. Smart, strong, lethal. Everything you're_ not_." It cocked its head to one side and regarded Sam with a mixture of amusement and scorn. "That's _really_ why you left for Stanford, isn't it?"

Sam didn't answer. The shifter put the glass down on the counter with a thump. "Okay then. Oh, just so you know? Don't expect the cavalry to come this time. Big brother is_ not_ gonna come charging through that door with that damn gun of his. I got his blessing this time."

Sam held the knife out in front of him at an angle, ready.

"Geez, you're so eager to get your ass kicked, Sammy. Okay." The 'shifter grinned and stepped forward.

Sam lost himself in the motion with the knife then. He made a pass with it through the air, slashed the sumbitch downward across its chest. Sam refused to think about the fact that this thing looked like Dean. At that moment he was all for killing the bastard, but…

The knife whickered through the air without meeting any resistance. For a moment Sam and the 'shifter stood nose to nose and then it smiled at him, wide and easy, and Sam felt its fist slam into his face, once, then twice, before Sam dropped to his knees, struggling to stay conscious. He slashed out with the knife again, and through the haze saw his arm and the knife pass harmlessly through the bastard's body.

The thing's fist slammed into the side of his face again, heavy, solid.

The 'shifter laughed. "Yeah, I know. This ain't fair. I can touch you, but you can't touch me. Dean's sandbox, Sammy. Dean's rules. Sorry."

And it lashed out and hit Sam again, this time in the chest. Damn thing was solid enough then, at least.

_**Three**_

Blood. There was so much damn blood.

Bobby could smell it even before he opened his eyes. He'd smelled it enough times, in enough bad dark places, during hunts that had gone south, and smelling_ that_ much blood was _never_ a good sign.

He didn't want to open his eyes, but he had to. He lay on his side, facing a wooden door. Cheap, faded floral wallpaper. Worn brown carpet. Nothing he hadn't seen on the road, during countless hunts.

Bobby pushed himself up, got to his feet as quickly as he could.

Sam Winchester lay on his back a few feet away. The young man's shaggy hair was clotted with blood. Streaks of blood ran down his face, pooled in that large hole in his chest. The cheap carpet underneath his body was soaked with it.

John Winchester sat upright a few feet away, his back up against the foot of one of the three twin sized beds in the room. His eyes were closed and his head was down, chin on his chest, and he was just as bloody as Sam was.

Just as _dead_ as Sam was.

Bobby saw a Bowie knife and a gun lying on the floor, slick with blood.

Dean Winchester sat with his knees drawn up to his chest, his back jammed up against the nightstand between the two twin beds.

"Dean. My God," Bobby said hoarsely. "What the hell happened here?"

Dean sighed, and it was a terrible, tired sound. Adult Dean's green eyes were just as dead as his younger counterpart's had been, in that other motel room.

"I was only gone for a moment," Dean said in a small broken voice. He laughed, and there wasn't any humor in it, just deep sadness with barely concealed hysteria underneath. "I went out to get some air, y'know? That's all. They'd been fighting all day."

Dean was still for a moment. "All damn day." He shrugged. "About stupid stuff. I can't even remember what the damn fight was about. I think…I think sometimes Sammy would just…" Dean glanced over at Sam's body, then glanced quickly away. "…pick a fight with Dad just for the hell of it, y'know? I -- I don't…" Bobby could see him struggle to maintain his composure, saw Dean's face almost break, then he settled himself again, and his face went carefully blank.

He cleared this throat again, and his voice was _too_ calm,_ too_ controlled, for a man who sat on a blood-slick floor between the bodies of his father and brother.

"I don't even remember what the damn fight was about. They were at each others' throats, but they weren't fighting when I left. That's the thing. They weren't fighting when I left. It was quiet. It was quiet, and I let my guard down. Should have stayed. I should have stayed. When I came back…I found 'em like this. Never should have left." He shook his head, slowly, numbly. "Never should have left."

"Dean," Bobby said slowly. "This isn't real. None of this happened. John and Sam didn't kill each other." This was one of Dean's fears come true. Bobby had gotten glimpses of Dean's inner turmoil when they'd done the exorcism on Meg Masters, but up until that time Bobby had never guessed Dean had that many personal demons inside of him.

"I fuck everything up, you know?" Dean continued, and Bobby realized that Dean either couldn't hear him or wasn't listening. "I couldn't keep my family together. I couldn't stop them from fighting."

"Dean, you gotta snap out of it." Bobby took a step forward. "You gotta stop this,_ now_, before someone gets hurt. You're creating all this stuff out of thin air…."

"They're both dead." Dean said dully. "They're_ all_ dead. I got nothin' to live for---"

"Dean? Dean, come on boy, listen to me --- "

Bobby watched Dean's eyes shift to the pistol on the floor, and Bobby knew what was going to happen even as he lunged forward. Dean somehow had the gun in one hand already, and his finger tightened on the trigger.

The sound of the first gunshot as it struck Bobby really wasn't that loud.

Dean jammed the pistol underneath his chin.

_That _gunshot was muffled.

Bobby came out of the darkness slowly. Ahead he could see a faint yellow glow that was getting brighter.

Someone had their hand on his bare stomach, and he growled to himself. Better be a fine looking woman doin' that. An angel.

He opened up his eyes and stared. _Oh, shit._

"You…you shot me."

"I know." Dean shrugged. "Sorry." That yellow glow in Dean's eyes never failed to give Bobby the creeps. He looked down and saw Dean's hand on his stomach, and Bobby quickly looked away. He could actually feel his insides knit back together, and it wasn't a pleasant sensation.

They were back in the hallway of the rectory. That other motel room was gone, along with John and Sam's bodies, and all that blood. Bobby sat with his back against the wall, and here was Dean, looking all calm and normal and unbloodied, except for that glow in his eyes.

Bobby's eyes narrowed. "Which one are you?"

"I don't know." Dean frowned a little, then the corners of his mouth quirked upwards in a grin. "Bet you're sorry now you didn't let me use the Colt, huh?"

Bobby's right hand curled up into a fist and he punched Dean in the face.

Dean blinked. "Okay," he said slowly. "I deserved that."

He looked down and smirked a little more as Bobby's hand curled up into a fist again.

"_Dude_. I'm not gonna let you hit me again. Quit moving around. I gutshot you, remember?"

"So now what?"

"Gotta find Sam after this. And he's gotta give me the Colt."

"Damn, boy, you've got a one track mind about destroying yourself, don't you?"

Dean shrugged. "If you can come up with another way to end this, I'd sure in the hell like to hear it."

They stared at each other for a long moment.

"I got nothin' else," Bobby finally admitted.

"Didn't think so. We gotta go."

_**Four**_

Mary leaned down, kissed the top of Dean's head, then ruffled his hair. Dean opened his eyes, inhaled deeply of her scent. She smelled nice. Clean. She smelled good, not like smoke, blood, and charred flesh. "Remember what I used to tell you when I tucked you in at night?"

"You said…you said angels were watching over me." Dean frowned as the headache behind his eyes intensified. Felt like the top of his head was about to come off.

"That's right. They still are." Mary laid her cheek against the top of Dean's head. He nearly sighed out loud as the pain melted away. He heard a voice, sounded like Bobby, faint, distant. He couldn't make out the words. Fever, that was what it was. That was all it was…

Dean snort-chuckled weakly. "Your angels have been falling down on the job, Mom. They have been for the past twenty four years."

She sighed. "I know it seems that way, baby, but that's not true."

"It's not?" Dean leaned back, stared at her. He couldn't help himself. She was beautiful. Perfect in every way, and his heart ached at the sight of her. "Then why do _we_ always pay the price for this? Can you tell me that? Huh?"

Her hand came up, and Mary pressed her hand over Dean's heart. He tilted his head slightly, put his hand over hers.

"I don't even know who I am anymore," Dean said softly. "This Trickster thing…."

She shook her head. "You're my son, Dean. Always have been. No matter what. Coyote doesn't change a thing..."

Dean swallowed thickly. Felt like his throat was closing up. He couldn't tell if it was rage or grief or sadness. "I've done a lot of things tonight…some of 'em I'm not proud of…" He raised his right hand and stared at it. He could almost see, feel Travis' heart as it beat out its last between his fingers.

"I know."

"I've called down lightning, been struck by it, and stood there laughing. I can move things just by thinkin' about it. If…if I can do all that, then why couldn't I…"

"Why couldn't you save me that night?"

He nodded.

"It was my time to go." Mary's voice was filled with a calmness, a certainty.

Dean shook his head. "I can't. Can't accept that." His voice was small, like a child trying to be so grownup.

"You have to. You were both so young back then. Both of you. You were only four. After he was reborn inside you Coyote had forgotten a lot of what he knew before." She smiled sadly. "That's why you were able to wall him up like that. If you had tried to stop the Demon, it would have killed you both, and I wasn't going to allow that."

"_You_ weren't going to allow---" Dean repeated. Mary nodded without saying a word.

"This mystical new age shi --- _crap_-- is making my head hurt."

She smiled. "It _is_ kind of hard to wrap your head around at first."

More than anything he wanted to just turn around, put his head on her shoulder like he did when he was a kid, wrap his arms around and never let go. _Please Mom, take me with you when you leave. Please. I'm tired. M' scared. Please, Mom, please…_

_Take me with you. _

He didn't ask, because he knew she couldn't.

Her heartbeat, her touch soothed him. Dean closed his eyes again, and he really couldn't say exactly when he felt her leave.

The damn voices came back.

…_Dean, you gotta stop this, now…_

…_they're both dead… they're all dead…_

_Shut up, _he silently pleaded._ Shut the fuck up. I don't have to listen, I don't want to listen…_

He kept his eyes closed. The voices echoed inside his head, rising and falling and then, mercifully, faded.

The hair at the back of his neck stood up, and his skin prickled. He was being watched. Intently. He was being…measured. The hunter was the hunted now, and whoever – whatever – this was obviously considering all the options. What's it gonna take to bring him down. How much trouble is that going to be?

Dean opened his eyes, turned, and stared calmly at the person sitting on his left.

Gordon Walker.


	27. Ch27 Blind Man Lookin' for a Shadow

A/N: This chapter's title is taken from "King of Pain" by the Police.

Disclaimer: Don't own the boys. I wish I did.

Spoilers: Skin, pre-Pilot, Hunted, Shadow

_**Then: **_Bobby and Sam had to deal with a feverish Coyote/Dean as he manifests his innermost demons and pain. Some are just illusions, and some of them are real, and can kill. The shapeshifter from St. Louis gleefully tormented Sam with Dean's darkest thoughts. Bobby found out just how dangerous Winchester family life can be. Dean got a visit from a vision in white.

_**Now: **_Coyote encounters some old "friends." Dean gets another visitor, and the boys have a misunderstanding.

_**Dog Eat Dog**_

_**Chapter 27 …a blind man looking for a shadow of doubt…**_

_**One**_

Sam slashed out with the knife again, and the damn thing with Dean's face laughed. It didn't even try to dodge the blow. It kicked Sam in the ribs, laughed as Sam grunted as his body was lifted off the floor with the blow.

He hit the floor heavily, still clutching the knife.

"That's the definition of insanity, Sammy. Doin' the same thing over and over again and expectin' different results every time."

Sam lay there, and the 'shifter sighed. "I was hopin' you would have lasted longer than last time. Oh well." It tangled its fingers in Sam's hair, and pulled him up on his knees. "I'll make it quick, little brother. I'm not a totally heartless bastard, y'know…"

Sam's left hand crawled up the front of the 'shifter's jacket front, and the damned thing laughed. Sam's fingers trembled, and the 'shifter smirked. "Damn man, I even feel embarrassed for you," it said, but then Sam's fingers went claw-like as he hooked them into the thing's chest. Sam reached out with his mind and held the thing.

"Gotcha," Sam whispered.

The 'shifter's eyes got wide as they turned silver. "…yuh…can't …do… that…" it slurred, and Sam pulled with his mind, pulled his grip in every direction outwards. The total effect was like taking one of those dandelion flowers and blowing it apart with one breath. The 'shifter came apart in a cloud of wisp and vapor.

_Dean_, Sam thought as he struggled to his feet with the knife still in his hand. Sam transferred the knife to his other hand as he wiped the blood out of his eyes.

_I have to stop Dean… _

_**Two**_

The Ilimu inside John Chambers hummed and drummed his fingers against the steering wheel. _I'm the last, and the least,_ it thought. It glanced in the rear view mirror at the dog in the pen behind it. _Well, me and the old fleabitten mutt here._

"Hey! Heyyy! Officer, over here!"

Two human females stood by the side of the road, frantically waving their arms.

The demon smiled. He narrowed his eyes as he studied them. No black or red eyes. No black chains. Just two females. An adult and a younger one. Nothing it couldn't handle.

The marked Crawford County K9 car was actually attracting some survivors. Some stragglers, and the way the tribe had swept though the place, the demon was actually surprised there were any humans left.

This was something it could use.

He pulled the cruiser up alongside them, and they leaned down, wide-eyed, staring at him through the open passenger side window.

The older red headed female smirked as her eyes flared murky yellow. "Oh, Officer, Thank God you've come," she chirped. She opened her mouth wide and Azazel came boiling out…

_**Three**_

Coyote swallowed thickly, and something in his throat clicked when he swallowed. He tasted burnt metal in his mouth. Something poked into the skin of his collarbones, but it was a distant sensation. Coyote reached out with his senses a little and for a second got the impression of being closed up inside a small dark place, like a closet.

There was something he should have remembered, something important, but he couldn't think straight. His head felt bad, clouded. Coyote realized he couldn't feel Dean inside anymore, couldn't remember the last time he'd even heard from the boy….

_You and your pretty, sweet boy_, the air whispered silkily above and around him. If he squinted slightly he could see their pale faces, the blood red robes they wore. There were three of them.

Fingers touched his chin, long fingernails ran down the side of his face. _Green eyes to go with the gold. So beautiful. So strong. Just like last time. _

"_Callisto…Thera…Lillith…" _Coyote breathed. He had to dig deep into his memory to even come up with the names. _"Hello, ladies…ch-charming as ever, I see…"_

_Hello, Roamer, hello… _They smiled down at him as they swirled gracefully around each other._ Made that collar 'specially for you. Yellow eyes wants you to darken, like last time…_

"_Oh, so you're whoring yourselves out now, huh?"_

Fingers dug into the soft part of his throat, made his back arch slightly. They were going to hurt him anyway. It was what they did. Blood to blood. Skin to skin. They enjoyed pain. It was the basis of everything they did, even their magic.

It was what _he_ wanted, a long long time ago.

Coyote laughed as long fingernails dug into him, shredded his t shirt across his stomach and chest.

They hissed and drew back when they touched the eye of Abraxas and the amulets on his chest.

_That's no way to talk to us, little wild dog, _the air around him hissed. _We only made it to settle a debt. We told him exactly how to use it. What that yellow eyed bastard does with it is no concern of _ours_. No one listens to us, like they used to. _He felt a long warm tongue slide wetly up the side of his neck. _You…taste different this time… _

The grip on Coyote's throat tightened and his eyes rolled up into his head as his body arched upwards.

…_past glories, __Mą'ii__. Past glories. Don't fool yourself. Those hunters will never let you live, especially once they know what you've done in the past, what you and your sweet boy are really capable of…_

_He jumped over the top railing of the corral easily. It kept them inside, wasn't supposed to keep him out. The humans shrank back when they saw him and they wouldn't look him in the eye. _

_He could hear their thoughts --- _

_Take him, don't take me. _

_Please, oh God no…_

_---and Coyote had to smile at that. _

_He'd spent a lot of time out in the sun lately. His dark blond hair was shoulder length now, bleached from the sun. His clothes were dusty work denims, and he was deeply tanned with a short beard._

_He stood there staring at them, and his eyes were just as golden orange as the setting sun behind him. When he saw her he knew she was the perfect one to start with._

_It was so easy. He smiled at her, and the smile even reached his eyes, so she stepped towards him. She took his outstretched hand, and he raised her arm over her head, twirled her in place like they were at a barn dance. She laughed. She was only ten years old. Tall slender, brown-skinned. She was in that awkward coltish stage. Given time she would have grown out of it._

_Nice kid. Coyote thought so. Her name was Anne Marie. She'd been shy around him at first, when they found him wandering around in the desert, weeks ago, sick and alone. They'd taken him in, nursed him back to health. _

_If they had known who and what he really was, they would have killed him on the spot._

_He couldn't remember his own name this time around, so they called him "John." When he was strong enough to walk around, Anne Marie followed him around the ranch like he was her long-lost big brother. _

_He liked kids. He had an easy, natural way with them. He liked and respected them, and he used that, every chance he got._

_He liked Anne Marie. He really did. She was like a little sister to him, she really was. His feeling about her was genuine, right up to the very moment he put his hands around her throat and twisted her head right off. _

_Coyote lifted her head in his hands and stared into her brown eyes one last time. She stared at him blankly, and then her face took on this slack distant expression as she left this life. _

_He was pretty sure she understood. He was doing her a favor._

_He tossed her head over the top railing of the corral before he got back to business. Her headless body took a few drunken steps backwards before falling to the ground in a boneless heap._

_Coyote moved from one person to another after that. He kissed some of the women, and when he pulled his mouth away their limbs withered and they were riddled with disease. Cholera. Leprosy. He pulled the hearts out of some of the others with his bare hands. _

_He threw the choice bits over the top railing of the corral, and the witches and the two hearted shaman each came forward and took their share while Redd and Slymm looked on disdainfully._

_**Three**_

Gordon looked Dean up and down, and his stare lingered on Dean's face. "Yellow eyes. That's a new look for you, isn't it, Dean? Guess I zeroed in on the wrong Winchester fugly, huh?"

"Guess you did."

"Or maybe both you_ and_ Sam are hellspawn." Gordon shrugged. "Wouldn't be the first time something like that ran along family bloodlines."

"Leave Sam out of this. I'm the one you want," Dean said tiredly.

"You know, Dean, I'm surprised at you." Gordon's smile was slightly crooked, sly. "You really think I'm that damn stupid?"

"You don't really wanna _know_ the answer to that one," Dean said flatly.

"Okay." Gordon said, a little too quickly. "Doesn't matter anyway. I've got you here now. I'll get Sam later." They sat there quietly for a moment, and Gordon nodded in the direction of the cracked Virgin Mary statue. "I kept hearing things about _you_, Dean. Kept my ear to the ground, even while I was in jail. You know how people talk. You were in Norwood State Hospital recently, right?"

Dean didn't answer.

"Think I don't know who and what I'm dealing with? Think I don't know that you've got the Trickster Coyote inside you? Damn, Dean, when you went fugly, you did it in a big way. Coyote's a legend. He's got celebrity status. One of the big boys. One of the oldest Tricksters on Earth."

Dean sat back against the wooden bench. The fever was back. He could feel it roil beneath his skin; the roar and crackle of the flames was background noise. He couldn't feel Coyote. For the first time that night, he couldn't even feel whether the Old Man was still in there.

Gordon shrugged carelessly. "Now, I don't know how it got inside you. Don't know, don't really care. Thing I do care about is, you're not fully human anymore. Sam might still be all human, might not be. The point is, you're too damn dangerous to be left to run around free. And little Sammy is too soft-hearted to do what needs to be done."

Gordon pulled a long, slender brass blade out from under his jacket, held it up to the light while he admired it. "Don't misunderstand my motives, Dean. I'm not some glory hound. I'm doing this as a public service, for humanity."

Dean's laugh was short, humorless. He shook his head. "Well, aren't you a peach."

"Though come to think of it, the hunter that nails Coyote's pelt up on the trophy wall _is _gonna pick up a lot of street cred."

Dean rolled his eyes. "You gonna talk me to death, Gordie?"

Gordon's smile was tight. "Something like that." And he turned and slammed the knife down into Dean's forearm, pinning Dean's arm to the wooden seat of the pew.

The pain was electric. It traveled up Dean's arm, coursed through his entire body. He opened his mouth tried to say something, anything. His eyes widened, and it was all he could do but sit there paralyzed, staring blindly, his body trembling as Gordon bore down on the blade, twisted the knife in even further.

Dean couldn't even groan.

"Yep, just gimme that old time religion," Gordon said briskly. "Anything that's not of God's Dominion is on the old heavenly hit list. Here's a little prayer in Latin I think you might like, Dean… **Dies irae**** e****sto perpetua**** …**

- The Day of Wrath, Judgement Day, let it be forever…

…**puris omnia pura …**

…to the pure all things are pure…

…**fallaces sunt rerum species… **

…the appearances of things are deceptive…

Dean sat there, pale and impaled to the bench, shaking and trembling.

"Gordon?" Sam stood there, swaying slightly on his feet, and the look on his face as he took this all in was priceless.

Gordon turned. He pulled another brass colored knife out of his jacket, and his grin was wide and calm as he stepped forward and swung at Sam with it. "Oh, don't fret about it, Sammy. I got something for you too."

Sam pushed at him with his mind. Gordon's eyes narrowed as he was jerked backwards, and Sam felt the brass blade slice through the air right above his eyes, the bridge of his nose.

Gordon came apart in a heat shimmer of energy. It was different from the shifter; Sam knew he hadn't done a thing. The blade in Dean's arm vanished along with Gordon. Without the blade pinning him to the wooden bench Dean dropped heavily to the floor, on his knees. Dean's blood was everywhere, on the bench, on the floor…

"Dean?" Sam started forward and then stopped short as he ran right into something solid he couldn't see.

Dean's golden eyed gaze was wild, unseeing, at first. "…nuh…no…don't…come near me…" He doubled over. There was so much blood, running down his arm, staining his t shirt and one leg of his jeans as he cradled his arm to his body.

"Dean?"

He jerked his head up stared wildly at Sam, and that was when Sam realized that he still had the knife in his hand. That was when Sam realized what Dean was thinking, could hear it in his own head.

…_knife…Sam has… a knife…_

And Sam heard his own voice, a distant echo: _I have to stop Dean…_

"…stabbed me…_you_ stabbed…me…"

"Dean, no listen, wait…" Sam dropped the damn thing as though it burned his fingers, but as it clattered to the floor he knew it was too little, too late. "I didn't…"

Sam watched the room shimmered around them, and the air became dusty and stale. The church disappeared and the walls turned gray and dirty, cracked and covered with graffiti. They were back inside Roosevelt Asylum, and Dean swayed on his feet, clutching his torn and bloody shirt where the rock salt from Sam's shotgun had gotten him squarely in the chest.

"You…you hate me that much, Sam?" Dean said haltingly. "Do you?"

"Dean, please…None of this is real…"

"Feels…real enough…" Dean pulled his hand away, stared at the blood that slicked his right palm. He laughed, and it was a dull bark of laughter. "You gonna hide behind ol' Doc Endicott, Sam?"

"Dean, I didn't…"

The glow in his eyes darkened as Dean swayed back and forth. "Stop it, Sam."

"What?"

"Stop it. Stop pretending. Just...stop it. I'm…I'm tired, Sammy. Tired of having to pretend all the time…"

"You don't have to pretend in front of me. You know you don't, Dean."

Dean laughed bitterly. "_You?_ You're full of shit, Sammy." He took a shaky step back. "I've seen…I've seen some of the looks…you give me…you think I'm stupid…"

"Dean, no…"

"Think I'm some kind of fuck up…"

"Dean…"

"And you're even ashamed of me sometimes. I'm not one of your Stanford buddies. I'm not book smart like you are…."

"That's not true…"

"_It is true!"_ Dean growled roughly. His voice was deeper, wilder than it had been. Dean's pupils glowed fiercely with every word. _"M' tired, Sammy. Tired of waiting for you to leave me. Tired of waiting for the other shoe to drop. You…you don't know half the…half the things I've done, the things I've agreed to…just to keep you safe. You talk the talk, about family and being brothers and all, but every damn body knows that when this whole sorry mess is over with you'll ditch me in a heartbeat."_

"Coyote?"

Dean laughed._ "Is __**that**__ what you think this is? Think Coyote's pullin' my strings? Takin' over? I told you. I told you, and you didn't listen. You never listen. I'm not hidin' what I am anymore, not from you, not from anyone."_

"Dean—"

"_Shut up, Sam." _Dean growled.Sam felt something he couldn't see wrap around his throat, squeeze it shut. Sam gagged. He raised his hands to claw at his throat, and_ that_ was useless.

"_On your knees, Sam."_

Sam knelt.

"_That's better,"_ Dean's voice was a low rumbly purr. He walked towards Sam, smooth, cat-like. _"You take everything I have, and it's never enough, and then you leave. You always leave. Maybe…maybe I should fix it…so that you never leave me again…" _

Sam stared upwards, pleaded with his eyes._ Dean, no, you don't want to do this. You don't._

"_Fix it so that you don't ever want to leave…" _Dean stared intently at him as he walked, almost prowled around Sam_. "You told me when we were in Chicago that I'd have to let you go your own way when this was all over. That we couldn't be a family again. Dad's gone. Mom's dead. We're all that's left, Sammy. I'm not gonna let you tear our family apart again."_

_Dean, please…_

"_You can't leave." _Dean's tone was normal, sensible. It was like he was trying to make Sam understand something he'd been mistaken about all along. _"You really think you can live normal after all the things you've seen? You really think you can live normal knowing what you __**are**__, Sammy?"_ Dean gently ran his fingers alongside Sam's face._ "It won't be so bad, little brother. We'll be together from now on. I'll patch you up. You'll be like new, I promise." _

Sam startled as he felt…something…inside his head. Fingers. It felt like fingers rifling around inside his head. It felt odd, it felt strange at first. The touch was tentative, hesitant and loving at the same time. The sensation increased inside Sam's head as Dean became more sure of himself.

Sam's memories of Stanford, and Jessica…Sam's eyes widened as he realized that Dean was going for them first. Sam struggled to hold onto them, and inside Sam's mind Dean tightened his grip.

_The way Jessica looked first thing in the morning, all sleepy eyed, but smiling when she caught sight of him looking at her. The feel of her lips as she brushed them across his forehead, the contented little sounds she made as he touched her…_it was all fading, slipping away…

Sam leaned into his brother, and as the tears rolled down Sam's face and the pain behind his eyes started to build Sam prayed that Dean would come to his senses and stop, but he didn't…

**00000 **

**Next up: YED shows up to claim his prize, but you know things never go the way anyone plans where the boys are concerned. **

**A/N: I have received numerous private emails asking me not to end this story after three chapters, so it appears that we've got a little ways to go before we're done here, folks. **


	28. Chapter 28 Pitch Dark

A/N: Some of you folks emailed me privately and asked me not to end this story after three chapters, so there will be at least five more chapters to go, instead of the three I mentioned at the end of the last chapter.

The people have spoken.

Spoilers: Route 666, Devil's Trap, In My Time of Dying, Pilot

**Then:** Trapped inside the church with a feverish Coyote/Dean, Sam and Bobby have had to deal with the physical manifestations of Dean and Coyote's personal demons and fears. Coyote and Dean are being darkened via the link, and neither one realizes it until it's way too late.

**Now:** Coyote faces his worst fear. Dean suffers from a split personality, and YED is coming to claim his prize.

_**Dog Eat Dog**_

_**Chapter 28 Pitch Dark**_

_**One**_

The hallway was dark, and quiet. Quiet was good. No bright lights, no noises.

Well, except for those damn voices that wailed and screeched inside his skull. Dean lay there on his side for a moment, cradled his aching, throbbing head in his hands.

…_you…you hate me that much, Sam?_

…_better off without me…_

…_can't take this anymore…he won't even look at me…_

…_bet you're sorry now you didn't let me use the Colt, huh?_

They wouldn't shut _up_, and he couldn't shut them _out_. So he turned over on his belly and crawled on his hands and knees. Away from them, in the opposite direction. He couldn't have gotten up and walked if his life depended on it. He felt sick, torn apart, and all he wanted right then and there was just to curl up in a corner and go to sleep, if the damn things would let him…

He froze when he heard the footsteps behind him. The lights in the hallway came on, all by themselves.

"Hello, lover," she said huskily. "Well, _you've_ had better days, haven't you?"

"Ca- Cassie?" He turned over, backpedaled, and he startled when his back thudded up against the couch. They were in her living room, and Dean couldn't even remember how the hell he'd even gotten there.

She stared at him, stared at his eyes, as though she was seeing what he really was for the very first time. She shook her head, those long auburn curls framing her smooth brown face. "You…you disgust me, you know that? And I let you put your dirty filthy hands on me, take me to bed, and all the while you had that…that thing…inside you…"

"Cassie, no…"

"Loving you the first time was a mistake. But you know what?" She knelt down in front of him, and leaned forward, rested her arms on the tops of his knees. "That time I called you, to come help me? I only did it because I wanted to use you, Dean."

A smile played on Cassie's full lips. She was very pleased with herself. "You didn't really think that I loved you, did you?" She leaned forward, put her lips to the shell of his ear, and he could smell her scent, like fresh strawberries. "I used you. Everyone who ever loved you has used you. Your Dad did. Your brother Sam did." She ran slim fingers down the side of his face, and Dean flinched as her hand came near his eyes. "Why did you expect me to be any different from the rest?'

"…I… loved you…"

"And I turned on you the first chance I got. Remember, Dean? And you know what? The people you save? They forget about you as soon as you drive away. They don't care about you. Never have. We only need you when things go wrong, and after that, why would we need trash like you hanging around? You drift from place to place. You haven't had a home in over twenty years, never had a _real_ job, and you waste your life helping people who just don't give a damn about you…"

She lunged towards him in one quick motion, fisted both hands in his leather jacket, and yanked him up onto his feet.

The color in Cassie's brown eyes lightened to a deep murky yellow. The walls of the room blurred, everything ran together, and when Dean's vision cleared the walls and floors were rough hewn wood, not the casually furnished living room they'd been in before.

Something that looked just like John Winchester stood there, yellow-eyed, grinning, like he was oh so happy to see his wayward eldest son.

"Truth hurts, don't it, Deano? You're even more of a disappointment to me _now_ than you were_ then_. All that potential, all that power inside you, and you couldn't stop me that night. You let your Mama down, boy. You coulda stopped all this before it even got started."

"No…" Dean shook his head. "Not…not you…"

He shook his head, couldn't help himself. He actually cringed inside at the sight of his own father, and on some level he knew it wasn't John, Dean _knew_ it, and he wondered exactly when the mere sight of his Dad could produce such a knee-jerk reaction in him.

"What's the definition of insanity? Doin' the same thing over and over again and expectin' different results. You choke every time you face me, Dean. _Every single time._ You're full of excuses. You could have stopped Bobby and Sam cold tonight, when you had the Colt in your hand. You could have stopped _me_ that night, years ago, but you didn't. And you know why?"

He slammed Dean backwards, hard against the wall.

"Because deep down inside, you know I'm right about you. They're not your kind. You have more in common with _me_ than you _ever_ had with your so-called family, your friends, those people," notJohn sneered, "those_ cattle _that you try to save."

"You have all these abilities, all that magnificent potential locked up inside you. You waste your time saving people, and for what? They don't need you the way you need them, but you try so fucking hard to convince yourself otherwise. Even when John and Sammy fought, it was more attention than John's _ever_ shown _you_."

notDad chuckled deep in his throat as he turned away. Dean stood pinned against the wall, held upright by something he couldn't even see.

God, his throat hurt.

"And the thing about it? John knew about Coyote. He _knew_," the thing drawled. "Found out later on, when the two of you were wandering around the desert southwest. That's Coyote's home, boy, and you didn't know, you just reacted to it. Did John tell you what was going on? Hell, no. Right after that he went to Bobby Singer, and he told that good old boy that if you ever went dark, that Bobby was supposed to take care of you. Now, mind you, went dark is code for, if Coyote ever showed his face again. And take care of, well, hell, you and I both know what _that_ means. You know _why_, don't you? John Boy was angry. You let his wife die, boy. You could have stopped all of this. That night. Could have, but you didn't."

"Not…true…Mom said…"

"Think that really was your Mama you saw tonight?" notDad smiled. "She was a figment of your imagination, boy. A product of your guilty conscience. But it's not too late. All you have to do now is let go. Stop hiding what you are. Stop fighting what you are."

"...m'tired…so tired…" Dean whispered brokenly.

"I know you are. And it's not fair, is it? It's not fair at all. You can make it right. Recapture past glories. Become exactly what you were meant to be, all along. No conscience. No distractions." Dean's eyesight blurred, and the thing wearing his Dad's skin suddenly stood right next to him, one hand firmly on Dean's right shoulder.

That whiskey smooth growl of a voice soothed Dean, calmed his jangled nerves.

"I meant it when I said that there's more inside your head than you realize, Dean. You've blocked it out. You're so stubborn, so determined to play act at being human, when you could be so much more than that, son."

"…not you…ten forty one am…time of …death…" Dean slurred.

"I know," notJohn whispered as he tenderly touched the side of Dean's face. notJohn's eyes were normal, the skin around his eyes crinkled as he smiled sadly at Dean. "Nothing's written in stone, nothing that can't be undone."

"…not my dad…not…"

"Does that really matter now? You fight and you fight for this family" the thing whispered, "but they don't need you, not the way you need them. I can fix all of that for you. Let it go, son. Let it all go. Stop fighting. Stop struggling."

Dean blinked slowly. He smelled the faint odor of whiskey, gunpowder and leather. He smelled that spicy aftershave Dad used to wear. He felt himself lean towards notJohn, and when it wrapped his arms around his shoulders and pulled him close Dean leaned into the touch.

"Stop fighting it, Dean," the John thing whispered. "Let it all go…."

"Dad…" Dean breathed, and he let go…

_**Two**_

Something warm trickled down the sides of Sam's neck on both sides.

He ignored the blood. He ignored the pain in his head.

Jess. Dean was trying to take Jess away from him, and Sam couldn't understand it, couldn't understand how Dean could just stand there, with that slight smile on his face and that yellow glint in his eyes. Sam closed his eyes, flinched as Dean tightened his grip inside his mind, on his memories.

He wouldn't give Jess up. He couldn't…

"_Stop fighting me, Sammy. Won't hurt so much if you do. I don't wanna hurt you. Never have. You know that, don't you?"_

"..lea'…leave me alone…" Sam stared upwards at his brother. The muscles of his body quivered. If he could just move, push Dean away from him, get to his feet somehow…

Dean shook his head calmly. _"I can't do that. I'm the oldest, so I know what's best for you," _Dean growled softly, almost sadly._ "Jess is dead, Sam. She's dead, and we're not."_

Dean increased the pressure inside Sam's head, and Sam moaned aloud. _"I can fix you little brother,__ whether you wanna be fixed or not…"_

Sam swayed from side to side on his knees, and his vision doubled. He saw Bobby Singer limp painfully into the room, and Bobby wasn't alone. The dog Condie slunk behind him like an ink black shadow, and Dean stood beside Bobby, helping him along in a modified fireman's carry, but that wasn't right. Dean was right beside him, Dean was killing him inside his own head…

"Hey!" Wide green eyes looked over at Sam, narrowed with anger.

The other Dean carefully leaned Bobby against the wall, and Sam watched as he walked towards the other Dean. The second one walked into the first one from behind, and as Sam stared upwards he was looked at a double image of Dean, one overlaid on top of the other. The one that was touching him popped like a soap bubble.

The second one looked startled. His eyes flared yellow, then went back to green. "Son of a bitch…"

The pressure inside Sam's head vanished. He leaned over a little too far, into suddenly empty air, and he felt strong arms circle his upper body, felt himself being pulled upright on his knees again.

"Sam? Sammy? Dude, stay with me. Sammy?"

"You…you…tried to take Jess from me…" Sam slurred. He could move again. He could move again, and he knew exactly what to do.

His hand slipped backwards underneath the back waistband of his jacket. The smile on his face was crooked, dazed, and he pulled the special Colt out and jammed the muzzle underneath Dean's jaw.

_**Three**_

…_the older hunter cocked and raised the shotgun in one smooth motion, and Coyote could hear the boy yelling inside his head. Coyote reached out with his mind, going for Singer's heart, and nothing worked, nothing happened, and when the bastard pulled the trigger everything vanished in a blinding painful white flash…_

_The side of his face and throat hurt. Something warm and sticky ran down the side of his neck and over his left shoulder. When Coyote exhaled the inside of his mouth tasted like salt, dry and gritty, and burnt metal. The floor pressed soft against his back; he could tell his arms and legs were stretched out to his sides but he felt numb, disconnected from his body._

_Something was written on the floor underneath him. He could almost see the words and the symbols, could almost feel them pressing into the skin of his back and legs, holding him down, holding him in place. His skin tingled. He stared up at the sigil on the ceiling overhead, and frowned._

_Trap. Devils' trap._

_But…that's not right. I'm not a demon, _Coyote thought._ I'm not. I shouldn't be held like this…_

"Exorcizamus te, omnis immunde spiritus, omnis satanica potestas, omnis incursion—"

Bobby stood on one side, Sam on the other side of Coyote, and both of them read the ritual out loud with looks of intense concentration on their faces.

It was obvious they felt they were doing the right thing.

And they wouldn't stop. Coyote was an abomination, something that inhabited the body of one Dean Michael Winchester, beloved brother and friend, and if Dean died as a result of the exorcism, so be it.

_You're not my son_, John Winchester had raged. _We hunt down and kill things like you…_

Coyote screamed out as he felt something inside him rip free, and it was the most painful fucking sensation he'd ever felt in his entire life. His back arched so violently only the back of his head and his heels touched the floor in one huge spasm.

When his body slammed back down onto the floor he barely felt it. He couldn't feel Dean anywhere, couldn't even form the words to make them understand, to make them stop.

The words they spoke at him burned his skin. His connection to the body was ripped away with each and every word they spoke at him…

"…infernalis andversarii, omnis legio, omnis congregatio et secta diabolica…"

…_NO…I WON'T ALLOW THIS…I WON'T…I CAN'T…_

_Coyote felt his heart literally break in two. He screamed, loud and long, as his insides shifted, and he reached out with his mind with a killing stroke… _

**Four**

Dean froze. "Sammy?"

"You…you tried to take…Jess away from me…"

"I know. I know I did, Sammy. I'm sorry. I really am." This Dean looked at Sam so sadly Sam almost uncocked the trigger. Almost. "Seems like lately I spend all my time apologizin' to you."

Sam stared at him dazedly. The pain inside his head subsided, but he could still feel those phantom fingers inside his head, pulling, clawing at him.

"Come on, Sam, give me the gun. You don't want _this_ on your conscience. I got this.

I can do it myself."

"Which one are_ you_?" Sam whispered hoarsely.

"I'm your brother. I'm the part that would_ never_ hurt you. I'm sick, Sam. I'm sick, and I'm _never_ gonna get any better. Give me the Colt and I can stop all this. I can stop myself from hurting you or Bobby or anyone else ever again."

"Dean?"

"It's me, dude. It's _really_ me. Please, Sam. Give me the Colt."

Over in the corner, Bobby sighed and shook his head.

Sam slowly pulled the gun away from underneath Dean's chin. He slowly uncocked the hammer on the Colt, and Dean hesitated as Sam held the gun towards him sideways in his hand. "I'm sorry," Dean whispered as he took the gun and he thought to himself, _There I go again. When the hell did I become such a girl?_

Didn't really matter. His life was measured now in the number of breaths he would take as he got up, walked towards the door and out of the church with the Colt in his hand.

He wasn't going to do it in front of Sam and Bobby. He wouldn't.

And in the blink of an eye, suddenly he didn't have a choice in the matter.

The scream was a howl of pure outrage, fear and anger, and it pierced his skull from ear to ear like a damn dog whistle. Dean actually moaned out loud as he doubled over. Through the haze he saw Bobby and Sam double over at the same time, and Bobby's dog crumpled to the floor.

The Colt slipped out of his fingers. Dean was jerked to his feet. He stared dazedly at his own face. Rageful, wide-eyed, a mirror image with glowing yellow eyes.

"…_last piece…" _Coyote growled. _"You're the last piece. Stubborn bastard. You're the one that's always fighting me. You're the one that thinks you're separate from me. You think wrong."_

"Stop hurting them, you sumbitch, or I'll ---"

"_You don't have any say in the matter, boy. You only did if I let you. Not letting you anymore…" _

"You don't need to hurt them…you need _me_ to make you whole, remember? You hurt Sam, or Bobby, and I _will_ find a way to fuckin' _kill_ you, and you _know_ I will. Sam dies, I got nothin' to lose anymore."

Coyote looked suddenly shifty-eyed.

"_All right. All right,"_ he whispered. He was agitated, talked more to himself than to Dean.

"_…past glories, boy, past glories. Didn't have to think. You were there. You've always been there." _He shook Dean, hard._ "Why do you have to fight me, huh? Why? Make things difficult. More complicated than they already are. 'posed to be one. Didn't work out that way 'cause you walled me up. Two hearts better than one. You'll see…Better than one…"_

Sam crumpled over onto his side, as did Bobby, and Dean could see his brother's chest rise and fall in a regular rhythm. He glanced over and Bobby breathed in and out slowly, deeply. Condie twitched and sat up, dazedly.

Dean's own heart thumped fast and painfully, in his chest as adrenaline kicked in. Whatever was going to happen next, it sure in the hell was not gonna be good, or pleasant, but he was damned if he was gonna punk out now. It was going to be an end, the end of him, or a change that he definitely wouldn't like, but the alternative was seeing Sam and Bobby lying dead on the floor, and fuck that, he wasn't about to let _that_ happen.

For a weird moment he was glad Sam was unconscious, glad his eyes were closed, that by the time the kid woke up it would all be over. Dean didn't think he could do this if he had to stare into Sam's puppy dog eyes.

"Do what you gotta do, you son of a bitch…" he growled, and he sounded tougher than he really felt. He could do that, at least.

"…_fools mission…should have done this long time ago, long time before." _Coyote put both hands on the sides of Dean's face.

Dean sank slowly to his knees. He was barely aware of a shifting, a flowing sensation into Coyote's space. There were gaps in the Old Man, he saw that now, and there had been gaps in himself, too. What he had struggled with all his life, what he tried to fill with memories of his Mom, tried to fill by hunting with Dad and Sam, and then just Dad after Sam left for Stanford.

He'd tried to pretend the hole in him didn't exist, and all it took was for Sam to leave, and the fuckin' hole grew a little larger. Sam came back, and at least Dad was still alive, somewhere, out there, and the hole got smaller, for a while. But it never went away. Not completely.

Then Dad made that fucking stupid sacrifice for Dean in the hospital, and what was dead _didn't _stay dead, and the darkness flowed around Dean, through him, threatened to bring him to his knees.

It had always been there, but he'd fought against it, and the fight wore him down, wore him out. He was the missing piece, and he was true to his word. He didn't fight, and he didn't fight because of Sam, and because of Bobby, but then he realized it was for himself too. The sound of two heart beats was loud inside Coyote, and Dean realized that the two hearts were his as well.

Had always been his.

Let it go…stop struggling…

The fever roared in his ears, and the sound flattened out a little, became hollow, an echo, like hearing the ghost of the ocean in a sea shell. He flowed back into his body, and he felt strong, he felt light and powerful, stronger than he had ever felt before in his entire life.

What he'd felt in the first afterglow was nothing compared to this.

And instead of one heart beat, Dean felt two hearts beat inside his chest.

He reached up under his shirt and tore the eye of Abaxas and the other amulets from around his neck. Dean scowled at the medallion, stood there as the metal from the eye liquefied, ran melting, red hot and molten between his bare fingers and onto the floor.

Fucking thing had caused him enough trouble. Not any more.

One less thing to worry about. They'd never trap him with **that** again.

He was free. Free at last.

He tilted his head slightly and the yellow glow in his eyes grew brighter as he stared at Sam. Dean went over and knelt next to him. He carefully carded Sam's shaggy brown hair with his fingers, cocked his head to one side and made a rumbling sound deep in his throat.

Little brother. Family. Blood to blood. Only family left in the whole world.

Dean was less interested in Bobby.

The dog snarled at him, but Dean glared back at her and she backed away, whimpering.

_Come here, _the voice inside his head said.

Dean looked around, puzzled.

_Come outside, Maqįį._

The voice was a stronger pull than anything he'd ever felt before.

He didn't have to touch the double doors on the way out. They blew outwards, into the street, torn from their hinges as he walked forward.

The night sky outside was still ink black and maroon, and the moon rode low overhead like a bleached skull. Dean scented the air, tilted his head curiously to one side as he saw the marked police car sitting at the curb. There was a dog inside, and something dark inside the dog, minor dark. Dean snarled slightly to himself.

Two human females stood at the back of the car, an adult and a younger one, and they shied away when they saw him. They were pathetic, of no consequence to him. They didn't belong to him, like Sam and Redd and Slymm did. These two females were no real threat, and after he realized that Dean completely ignored them.

A uniformed cop leaned against the car. He was taller than Dean, broader, heavier. His eyes glowed a murky yellow.

_Azazel. _

The growl in Dean's throat was more felt than heard. He saw pale skin and blonde hair, smelled smoke, blood and charred flesh.

_Take Sammy outside and run as fast as you can…_

His nostrils flared with the phantom scent of hospital antiseptic; he heard machinery beeping, smelled sorrow, desperation and fear.

…_I'll call it…time of death…ten forty one am…_

"_Come here," _the Demon smiled, and it put out a hand. _"Let's have a look at you."_

Dean came and stood before him. Dean stared at Azazel hard for a moment, and then he dropped his eyes. Azazel's smile became wider. His Trickster pet obviously knew his place, without the need for correction.

"_You and your boy wear darkness well, Maqįį."_ The Demon stared back at him intently, appraising him, judging him, and it smiled at Dean using Chambers' mouth. The smile even reached its eyes, and that murky yellow color deepened.

Dean stood there, relaxed and easy, his eyes half-drowsy, face perfectly calm, as Azazel stared him up and down. "Two hearts. Beautiful," Azazel breathed, and Dean didn't say a word..

"_My child, I have such plans for you. With your help I will remake hell and earth and storm the gates of heaven. You're one of a kind. Magnificent. The only one that ever was, or ever will be."_

Azazel raised his arm, reached out, tried to put his hand on Dean's shoulder. It was meant to be a fatherly gesture, something to welcome his wayward adopted son back into the fold.

The hand stopped in mid-air. Chambers' entire body trembled, and Azazel stared in disbelief as his arm shook violently, then bent backwards at the elbow. Muscles and tendons snapped like worn out cables, bones cracked like brittle, dried out wooden branches.

Dean smiled as he tightened his grip with his mind. Chambers slammed backwards into the police car hard enough to rock the vehicle back and forth on its tires, and the possessed dog in the cage lunged at the side window bars, black eyed, slavering.

That yellow glow in Dean's eyes brightened like the noonday sun. "If I'm all_ that_," he drawled lazily, "then what the _hell_ do I need_ you_ for?"

_**000000**_

_**Next up:**_ Dean as Coyote versus YED, with Bobby and Sam caught in the middle.


	29. Chapter 29 Dreamers and Demons

I apologize for the delay in posting, guys, I really do. Real life has been a purebred bitch these last couple of weeks. As always, thanks to everyone who's put me on their favorite author lists, their story alerts, everyone who's read and reviewed, and everyone who lurked.

A/N: Icthion and Oze are European demons that I read about in "The Supernatural Book of Monsters, Spirits, Demons, and Ghouls" by Alex Irvine. Icthion (page 209) paralyzes men's muscles and Oze (page 214) creates illusions and brings a man to madness. I also got the idea for the "Wicker Man" sacrifices (page 37) from there.

I _**highly**_ recommend this book.

Disclaimer: Don't own 'em, damn it!

_**Then:**_ Dean's gone dark and merged with Coyote. YED has come to pick up his prize, but Dean isn't being very cooperative.

_**Now:**_ Dean (Coyote) Winchester versus YED, Round One. No holds barred, and the only rule is that there _are_ no rules. You have two minutes to place your bets….

_**Dog Eat Dog**_

_**Chapter 29 – Dreamers and Demons**_

_**One**_

Aaron sat upright inside the closet. His skin felt funny, stretched too tight over his bones, and the collar of thorns loosened up around his throat. He ignored the pain in his fingers as he yanked and pulled the damned thing off. Streams and threads of blood ran down his neck and chest, and he turned over on his side and threw up what little food he'd eaten in the last twenty four hours. He gagged on that foul metallic taste in his mouth, turned over and dry-heaved instead.

He could still feel the link behind his eyes. They were at opposite ends of a long winding dark tunnel, and Aaron thought he could see something dark with yellow eyes that blinked slowly, lanquidly, crouched down at the opposite end.

Aaron had heard snarling and growling through the link, and finally silence, but silence didn't mean that everything was all right, didn't mean that it was safe.

Silence was usually the time that things with teeth attacked.

Aaron lay on his side, breathing heavily, and he felt a slight tickle at the back of his skull.

He wriggled happily underneath the touch.

The yellow eyed man chose _him_.

_Him._ Not that bitch sister of his, Annie. _Him._

_Aaron?_ Azazel whispered. _Do me a favor, love. Go into the kitchen and find one of those sharp butcher knives. I'll tell you what to do with it. Be quick, now…_

_**Two**_

"Leavin' so soon?" Dean froze Maureen and Annie in their tracks with a hand gesture. He winked slyly at them. "M'just gettin' started." He enjoyed the fearful way their eyes widened, the haze their suddenly panicky thoughts created in the dead air around them.

The red-headed bitch and the younger one belonged to old yellow eyes and as far as Dean was concerned they were fair game.

They all were.

There were two kinds of people in the world: Us-we-blood-family. Dean and Sam.

All the rest was Them.

Prey.

The Ilimu demon inside the police dog made the animal growl and throw itself at the back windows of the car. Dean stared at it, and he smirked as the demon whimpered and made the dog curl up into a ball in the far corner of the backseat cage.

"Ungrateful brat," Azazel snarled. The air around the cop's body churned with dark energy as the Demon tried to free itself.

Dean stood there unimpressed.

"You're rejecting_ me_? _Me? _After everything I've done for you?"

Dean chuckled, deep in his throat. _"_Everything you've done for me?" he rumbled. He made a gesture with his hands, and an iron stake filled the fingers of his right hand.

Dean twirled it between the fingers of his right hand as he walked up to the cruiser and Azazel.

"Let me show ya _exactly_ how much I 'preciate everything you've done for me," Dean said, and his smile was bright, sharp edged. "You killed my mom and my dad."

When he reached Azazel's feet Dean slammed the stake down with enough force to pierce Chambers' kneecap and pin his leg to the concrete sidewalk.

Azazel arched his back, pressed his lips together to stifle the scream rising in his throat.

Dean shook his head, sighed. "Yep, that's _definitely_ gonna leave a mark."

Another conjuration with his hands, another long iron stake appeared out of thin air between Dean's practiced fingers. "You screwed over my little brother for the past year," Dean said, and for emphasis he pierced the cops' thigh with that stake.

Dean leaned down and winked. "You wanted me to show you how to cast lightning. I usually prefer 'extra crispy' when roasting demon asses." He nodded at the sky and Azazel stared up at the clouds that suddenly formed in the airspace overhead. "If you've got a personal preference speak up _now_, jackass. Don't be shy."

Azazel laughed as he arched his back against the pressure and the stakes that held him in place. His smile was wide and bloody. "You and those damn human morals you always pretended to have. This meatsuit was an innocent, long before I jumped into him. You didn't hesitate to maim him. Well done, well dark."

"Well,_ duh_." Dean shook his head, bared his teeth in a wolfish, slightly crooked smile. He didn't have that high an opinion of demons in general, European demons in particular. Arrogant bastards. Think they know everything under heaven and earth. And they always had to run off at the mouth.

Dean glanced at his reflection in the windshield of the cruiser and stopped, stared. Lightning flashed in the clouds, thunder echoed the deep, low rumble in Dean's throat. He liked what he saw and he growled with pleasure, soft, low and dangerous.

Power and energy coursed through every cell in his body, and it showed. He cocked his head to one side, and his smile was knowing, slightly crooked. Looking like that, he knew he could get _anyone anywhere_ to do _anything_ he wanted.

Hell yeah, he made this whole darkness thing look good. Damned good.

He'd be hunted on sight if he _ever_ showed up at Harvelle's Roadhouse or anywhere in the hunters' community with those golden eyes. Hell, just hearing the deep chested growl that his voice had become would be enough to make most hunters itch to burn a clip into him on general principle.

They could try.

Dean's smile got a little wider.

They could _all_ die trying.

He was Dean Winchester, he was Coyote, and there was no line, no boundary where one stopped and the other began. For the first time everything fit together smoothly. No rough edges, no conflicts.

He was more than human, or less than, depending on your point of view, and right now Dean honestly didn't give a damn either way.

Before he would have put his pistol in his mouth and pulled the trigger, rather than live the way he was now. Despite the swagger, the lethal combat skills, the old Dean was full of doubt, secretly ruled by his fears. Scarred by the Demon's fire over twenty two years ago, he was convinced he was unlovable, secretly thought he was worthless, afraid that he would be alone in the world.

Afraid that Sammy would go dark.

And what was so fuckin' wrong with_ that_?

Dean lifted his head, scented the air. This place was a graveyard, filled with corpses and soon to be corpses. He scowled slightly at the sulfur smell. He longed to be underneath a normal night sky after this. This was daemon. All wrong. It felt wrong. It smelled wrong.

After this he and Sam could go to the desert Southwest.

Home.

Wide open spaces. Mountains. Sacred places. Plenty of room to hunt.

Plenty of things, both human and Other, to hunt.

The urge to hurt someone, to kill them, had been building in Dean for so long, especially after he'd left Wal-Mart…it had been such a strain to hold himself in, hold himself back. The feeling had been so strong at times he'd even wanted to hurt _himself_.

During the split he'd felt fear and confusion as his younger self sat in that motel room with that shotgun cradled in his lap. Later on, inside the 'shifter's skin, he'd laughed as he punched, kicked and taunted Sam. It was only fair. After all, Sam_ had_ hurt him by leaving.

Sam would_ never_ leave him again.

There were easier ways to change Sam's mind. That memory grab had been too clumsy, too painful.

Dean knew better now. There were other ways to change Sammy's mind, ways so gradual Sam wouldn't even notice.

And by the time he _did_ notice, he wouldn't even _care_.

And now _this_. What better way to work off some of that lingering tension than by killing this yellow eyed bastard and his special children?

Life was sweet.

_**Two**_

Aaron made the first cut, the triangle shaped sigil of Lethe, directly over his right eye. He barely felt it as the sharp steel whickered into his skin. All the while the yellow-eyed man whispered in his ear, told him what a good boy he was, how proud he was of him.

Dean Winchester didn't react to the link. He was unaware.

Carving the interlocking circles of Icthion and Oze on his right temple took a little longer, but Aaron was patient, eager to please, and he somehow got it done. There wasn't much blood; Azazel had seen to that when it deadened Aaron's nerve endings.

Lethe made Dean forget about the link.

Icthion should paralyze the trickster bastard, at the very least "contuse" his muscles, while Oze fucked with his mind.

Azazel could see Aaron now, sitting cross-legged on the floor of the ruined safe house.

He was such a good boy. Such an obedient child.

_Now, Aaron,_ Azazel purred. _Do it now…_

Aaron raised the knife, placed the tip of the blade carefully against the center of the interlocking circles. When he pushed it into his skin he didn't hesitate, he didn't flinch.

Azazel kept the boy's heart beating. Aaron continued to breathe, even as his eyes glazed over and he slumped down to the floor.

Dean stopped short, felt his own body jerk sideways as something he couldn't see punched into the side of his head, at his right temple.

Azazel watched Dean's wild green eyes grow distant, vacant, watched the golden glint in the trickster bastard's eyes flicker and then dim, as he stood there frozen in place, swaying slightly on his feet.

The Demon's own eyes flared murky yellow. He held his hosts' mangled arm out to the side. Muscles, bones, and tendons knit back together. Skin grew back smoothly over the breaks and gashes. It flexed Chambers' broad fingers, satisfied that everything was back to working order.

Azazel began to move.

_**Three**_

_**Ten minutes ago**_

Sam vaguely remembered the pain in his chest and head and gut. It felt like he'd always imagined bugs felt when they were being squashed: sudden, blinding whole body pain, then blackness.

The snarling and howling sounds inside his head gradually faded away. He was feeling no pain at all now. Sam opened his eyes and sat on his bed in the cabin and watched Dean pack up his duffel on the other bed.

Bobby Singer sat at the wooden table near the window, a guarded look on his face, more like _Damn, are we doin' this creepy headspace crap again?_ Bobby was feeling totally awkward, like he'd stumbled onto a hidden journal that belonged to Dean, or a box of intimate photos he wasn't meant to see.

"I can't stay, Sammy, I already told you that." Dean was all business, pursing his lips slightly, the way he always did when he didn't want to go emo all over the place. He kept his face carefully blank as he moved around the room, emptied the drawers of his stuff into the bag.

"You can't fight this thing? You're gonna just let them take you?" Sam knew his tone was accusatory, implied that Dean hadn't fought hard enough. He knew he sounded like a friggin' spoiled brat, but this was about Dean, and Sam didn't care. How many times had he lost Dean in the past couple of days, and dammit, it was happening again.

Dean stopped right in front of Sam and looked down at his brother. The mask slipped and Dean's face broke, his expression open, raw and vulnerable, but that was gone just as quickly.

"Fight?" Masked again, Dean quirked an eyebrow at his brother. "Dude, I have. I did. I lost. It's over, Sam." He shrugged. "You gotta deal with it."

Sam stared down at the floor, at Dean's worn work boots, then up at his brother.

Dean sighed. The expression on his face softened. "Here." He stuck out his hand, his fingers curled around something Sam realized all too well.

The special Colt.

Sam stared at the Colt, frowning. Seemed to be the Winchester way, all right. When darkness falls, shoot your relatives dead.

Dean frowned slightly when Sam didn't move. "Take it."

Sam refused to move. He stared at the damned thing in Dean's hand. "Dean, I'm not gonna give up on you," he said hoarsely.

"You may as well, Sammy. You have to be careful from now on. You see your shot, you take it, you hear me? You take it. If you can get me _and_ that yellow eyed sumbitch at the same time, so much the better."

"You're not evil," Sam whispered. "You can't be. You're my brother."

Dean closed his eyes and shook his head. Sam continued to stare up at his brother, even as Dean moved out of his field of vision.

"He won't do it," Dean said sadly as he said down on the bed next to his brother. His shoulders slumped. He looked tired, pale.

"He'll try to save me and get himself killed," Dean murmured, more to himself than to Bobby, and that was when Bobby realized that he wasn't frozen, just Sam.

"Dean," Bobby growled warningly. "What the hell did you just do?"

Dean stared at Sam, then at the Colt. "I can't do it myself. Not now. They won't let me."

Bobby leaned forward, mentally gauging the distance between him and the bed. He could probably reach Dean and the Colt if he moved fast enough. "Who's they?"

Dean raised his head, stared at Bobby as though he just realized the older man was in the same room. The paleness of his skin accented the spray of freckles across his nose. His wide green eyes faded to dull brownish green.

"You know." Dean said softly. "You've met 'em. I'll…" he swallowed thickly. "I'll do what I can, to give you and Sam a chance. I can do_ that_, at least. Bobby, my Dad asked you to kill me if I went dark, didn't he?"

Bobby nodded.

"Did he…did he know about Coyote?"

Bobby shrugged. "At the time, I don't think so."

"But he must've noticed somethin' was wrong with me…"

"When John talked to me about you, he didn't say, Dean."

"I'm asking you to honor my Dad's request, Bobby. I don't…I don't want Sam to have to live with knowing he killed me. He deserves normal, 'specially after what he's gone through." Dean's laugh was small, forced. A chick moment without Sam just wasn't the same somehow. "Some things a little brother shouldn't have to do."

_And you think I'm all right with this? You're asking me to kill someone I like and respect?_ Bobby thought sharply. _Damn you Winchesters. _

"Bobby. Dude, I didn't know you cared." Dean grinned, a shadow of his usual bright smile. "You're right. I am a selfish bastard." And Bobby was so used to this headspace shit that he didn't even startle at the idea that Dean could read his mind, he just nodded.

"Damn right you are," Bobby said out loud. "I made a promise to your Daddy, Dean. I keep my promises."

"Thanks." Dean stood up. He handed the Colt off to Bobby, and he waited until Bobby slipped the Colt into his back waistband.

Dean stepped in front of Sam. "Walk me out, will ya?" He shifted the duffel to his right shoulder. "I need to show you something."

Sam blinked. "Okay."

Bobby's eyes narrowed.

He got up and walked to the door and Dean deliberately hung back, stepped behind Sam. Dean glanced at Bobby, and the look the two older men exchanged behind Sam's back was eloquent, silent.

Dean stepped forward, stood right next to Sam in the doorway. Sam didn't know what he'd expected to see, but when Dean threw open the door to the cabin Sam felt disoriented.

The Impala was there, parked outside the door the way it had been before. But the rest of the place looked like some homestead out in the Old West, New Mexico, maybe. The moon hung low and bright in a merciless black night sky. There was some kind of triangular wooden structure sitting in the coarse sandy soil about fifty feet behind the Impala. It looked as though someone had gone on a mad basket weaving tangent. Tree branches were interwoven with long wooden poles and thick logs. Something soft and fleshy poked out of a space between the branches.

It took Sam a moment to realize that soft fleshy something was someone's hand.

There were people trapped inside the damned thing. Sam could hear their moans, the rustle of their clothing as they moved against one another. He realized that this was some southwestern version of Wicker Man. Sam's mind flashed back to Stanford, he saw himself sitting in a classroom hearing a lecture about the Julius Caesar and the Gallic Wars. This was human sacrifice, old as time, delivered up to the heavens "in a sheet of flame."

Sam stared. The man in the denim clothes who stood there, staring up at the wooden framework looked just like Dean. He was tanned, bearded. His hair was long, down to his shoulders, bleached sandy blond by the sun. Golden eyes blazing, he walked around the soon-to-be-bonfire with a slight smile on his face that was typically Dean. He was relaxed. He was about to commit murder, and he was happy.

It was the happiest Sam had ever seen Dean look lately.

There were other creatures standing around, and they didn't seem to notice Sam, Dean or Bobby. Those two cat-women sat curled up on the ground. The others looked like nothing Sam had ever seen in his life. They were humanoid; that was the kindest thing you could say about them. Some were dressed in animal skins, coyote pelts from the looks of it, and some of the head dresses and belts they wore looked like they were made from human skin, with human scalps hanging down from their waists.

Human skulls and body parts littered the dusty ground.

"My…God…" Bobby whispered roughly.

"I remember," Dean said tonelessly, as he leaned against the door frame. "I remember it _all. _Every freakin' bit of it. And you know what the hell of the thing is? I enjoyed it. I did."

Dean stared at the scene, unblinking, and Sam suddenly knew what he was doing. He was bearing witness. Facing his crimes head-on.

"I killed people I cared about, Sam. People I loved. People who loved me," Dean said softly. "Didn't matter to me. I didn't care. This one family found me out in the desert. I was turnin' dark even then, but they didn't know that. They took me in. They had kids. This one little girl in particular…she followed me around…acted like I was her long lost big brother. She was just a kid. I…I liked her. A lot. And I killed her just the same."

Sam somehow managed to tear his eyes away from the scene. He didn't like the shaky sound of his own voice. He wanted to reassure Dean for once, tell him that none of this was his fault, but damn, that was kind of hard to do with this kind of evidence staring him right in the face.

Sam tried anyway. "Dean, that wasn't --"

Dean shook his head. He didn't look away. "Don't. Don't, Sam. I know you mean well, but that's me. Coyote and I were one and the same in that life."

Sam watched in silence as Dean as Coyote raised his right hand, touched the wood of the structure. Bright yellow flame ran from top to bottom. Dean as Coyote laughed, a pleasant, happy sound that carried through the gathering night, a counterpoint to the screams that cut through the night.

Staring blankly, Dean turned towards Sam and Bobby. Sam could see that bright flare of yellow in Dean's eyes. He seemed even paler than before, and after a few seconds Sam realized he could see straight through his brother. Dean faded away, slowly, gradually, until not even an echo remained, and the only thing left was Sam and Bobby and the Colt.

_**Four **_

He was cold…

…_nuh…no…_

…_little boy…_

…so friggin' cold his bones ached. He was useless, lost and worthless. Too stupid to even come in out of the cold. Frozen, on hisknees, his arms limp and useless at his sides, and he couldn't even remember how he'd gotten there. The world around him was a stark, icy blue, and he knew his own eyes were the same color. Dense thick white fog swirled in the air currents around him.

…_sad little boy…_

They sat on his shoulders, pressed into him from behind, whispered in his ear. The voices were like white static screeching between Dean's ears, worse than nails dragged across a chalkboard. The cold didn't kill the sulfur stench. It hung heavy in his nose and threatened to take his breath away.

…_get off me…_

Something large stood a few feet away watching him. He couldn't make out the details, just that it was huge and man-shaped. Yellow eyes hung in the whiteness, and just looking at that bothered him, angered him almost, and he couldn't figure out why.

…_nothing works…can't move… _

Claws dug into his left temple; the nerves behind his right eye kept jumping and quivering. His vision wavered, became watery, doubled. There was something there, something he should have remembered.

Two of the damned things, one on each shoulder. They were small, red and scaly, they pressed into him from behind, dug their claws deep into Dean's ice rimmed skin as they crouched on his shoulders and whispered into his ears. One of them coiled its long scaly tail around Dean's throat, and he tried not to gag as the tail tightened against his skin.

…_weak…scared…_

…_get off…_

They didn't pay him any attention, of course. Why the hell should they? He listened to the slow sluggish beat of his own heart in his chest, felt the heavy rasp in his chest as his lungs struggled to pull in and push out lungfuls of frigid blue air.

…_lost little dog…_

Names have power, and he was on the verge of forgetting his own.

The voices whispered to him, told him not to fight, that it was better if he just gave up. He couldn't take care of himself, didn't even have enough sense to come in out of the cold, so why should he even bother?

He closed his eyes, let the ice and the voices wash over him, lock him into place.

_I am…I am… _

What he was/is rumbled underneath the icy surface, refusing to give up, refusing to go away. The yellow glow in Dean's eyes pulsed underneath the icy blue that covered his eyes.…

…_stupid…worthless…_

The voices continued to whisper, and it felt like his brain was bleeding out inside his skull.

_I've killed thunderbirds with these hands, _Dean thought dully

… _useless pup…_

_Beheaded vamps, wasted shtrigas. Stolen fire from immortals. _

… _give up…too much thinking…_

…_burned wendigos down…_

…_you're worthless…useless…_

…_heard all this crap before…_

…_you're weak…all alone…_

…_and if I've done all__** that**__, what the hell makes you think I'm gonna listen to a couple of scaly little punks like you?_

Dean turned his head slightly. He opened his eyes, and that golden glint in his eyes fired up, shone fierce and steady, melted away the ice blue in his eyes.

Icthion and Oze froze.

_Bitches, please, _Dean snarled. _Get the hell __**off**__ me. __**Now**_

Icthion and Oze vanished like the proverbial snowballs in hell.

A sharp intake of breath, and then the fog laughed.

"_Clever little wild dog."_

The mist swirled thick and white around him, and Dean felt broad thick fingers under his chin lift his head up with surprising gentleness.

The scene kept changing in and out. It changed as he blinked---

---he stood frozen at the bottom of the church steps, trapped in his own skin, as the others, the women, that damn dog, circled around him ---

---he was on his knees in the middle of a white out that swirled and surged around him---

He stared upwards at those yellow eyes and growled, low and dangerous.

_Azazel._

"Usin' tricks against a Trickster?" Dean made a scoffing sound. "Spare me. I brought that shit to town."

The image blinked in and out. One moment Azazel in Chambers' body was solid and normal looking, the next he was one with the fog, a man shape that was only slightly darker than the mist that swirled around them.

Dean couldn't trust what he was seeing, so he focused on the sound. The sound of Chambers' heartbeat, the sound of Azazel's host's heart beating.

"_Back to the basics, then. Hard or easy way, Roamer. It's up to you." _Azazel rumbled and he stuck his hand out right in front of Dean's mouth.

_What the hell?_ Dean quirked an eyebrow, drew back slightly as he eyed the Demon and its host warily. The urge to just lean forward and just bite the hell out of that hand, ravage that stolen flesh down to the bare white bone, was so strong he could taste the blood in his mouth, thick and salty.

Energy crackled and swirled around Chambers' ring finger. The ring that pushed its way out of thin air was heavy, a cold golden color, and the stone was large, ebony black and poisoned yellow swirled together. Dean could see his reflection in it.

He tilted his head in an attitude of attention; he could almost hear the screams of the people who'd gone before, low thin shrieks barely audible against the background noise.

"_It's simple, really," _the fog rumbled._ "Kiss my ring. Make it easy on yourself. Do this one little thing. It doesn't have to be like this, Dean."_

Dean stared at the ring. He had no doubt that if he _did_ kiss it, his lips would burn with the taste of it, burn all the way down to his core. He'd be marked. He'd belong to the yellow eyed bastard now and forever.

Besides, he didn't do _easy_. Never had.

Dean shrugged. "Kiss the ring. It'd be like kissin' your ass. How fuckin' stupid do you think I am?"

Azazel stared at him, pulled his hand back. The Demon growled, and it moved so fast Dean didn't even see it move.

Something hard slammed into the back of his head, put him down on his hands and knees. Dean somehow managed to turn, lash out with his right hand, then his left, lightning fast. That alone should have connected with something, done some sort of damage, and the fog laughed as his hands sliced harmlessly through empty air.

"I'll teach you to heel, like a proper little dog," the fog whispered. It folded back on itself, swirling currents of dense white mist.

Yellow eyes hung in the whiteness as a large man-shaped figure ghosted around Dean.

He was jerked back up on his feet by his jacket collar. The next blow was like a sledgehammer to his lower back, followed by a series of hits to the face and body that spun Dean halfway around and put him back down on his knees.

He knelt there, battered and bloody. That low heavy ache in the small of his back told him his kidneys were getting pulverized, and that sharp pain in his side every time he took a breath definitely wasn't good either. Busted ribs, more than a couple, from the feel of it.

The slick taste of copper and salt filled his mouth. Dean spat a mouthful of blood onto the ground. He shook his head and laughed to himself.

It was a trick. Of all things, it was a fuckin' trick. A distraction.

The irony was not lost on him. A good trick was something he could appreciate.

_Concentrate. Concentrate on the heartbeat._ Dean's eyes narrowed, flashed dangerously. He caught a glimpse of yellow eyes hanging in the whiteness ---

"Never should have depended on those three bitches," the whiteness hissed.

_Bastard talks too damn much,_ Dean thought. He reached out and was immediately rewarded by the feel of something solid and fleshy underneath his hands. Something that bled.

Dean smelled blood and bile in the air, and a faint hint of sulfur. He hooked Chambers' right arm underneath his own, trapped it, and repeatedly drove his fist into the space between those yellow eyes.

The sound of bones cracking actually made Dean smile a little.

The white out faded out around him; he was underneath that unnatural maroon colored night sky again. He was back at the church steps. The ruined police cruiser sat at the curb, and on the sidewalk a bundle of torn clothing and ripped open flesh sprawled on the ground. Dead now. There was another scent, a familiar one, underneath the reek of blood and piss and fear.

Us-we-blood-family.

_Trick._ Dean rumbled as his nostrils flared. _Not real, sumbitch. Not real…_He glanced down at his hands. They were dark under the moonlight, sticky with dried blood.

His eyes widened slightly as he stared at the body on the ground.

Shaggy dark brown hair. Male. The eyes were open, stared sightlessly up at the night sky.

Sam.

Dean couldn't help himself; he backed away. Even as he did he felt something loomed over him from behind. Pressure gripped both sides of his head and neck, and he knew he was fucked. He caught a glimpse of yellow eyes, and torn blood slicked clothing as he turned around halfway.

The pressure around him tightened as Dean tried to move. Too little, too late.

"Sam's your weakness, boy," the Demon whispered. "I have him, and I have you. Here's a small death. Something you can handle."

The sound of Dean's neck snapping was a quick, bright sound.

_**000000**_

_**Next Up:**_ Dean (Coyote) Winchester versus YED, Round Two.


	30. Chapter 30 Old Dog, New Trick

A/N: Having to pack up everything and move to a better, quieter place was a pain in the ass, but still totally worth it. I hate it when real life interferes with the fiction. Some people have privately emaild me that Dean doesn't appear to be all that evil when compared to YED. Trust me, this chapter will disprove that notion once and for all.

Pop culture reference: "My give a damn's busted, Sammy." Paraphrased from Jo Dee Messina's song,_ My Give A Damn's Busted. _

Thanks to Carole for giving YED the nickname "Old Yeller." I liked it, so I, um, borrowed it. All right, I _stole_ it. I have no shame.

Disclaimer: Don't own 'em, darn it.

_**Then:**_ Dean (Coyote) Winchester versus Azazel, round one.

_**Now: **_Dean proves death is only the beginning, and Sam has a hard decision to make.

A/N: I had my own hard decision to make during this chapter. The battle between Dean and Azazel will be presented in its entirety in the next chapter, which will be posted on Monday morning. I've already written it, and all I need to do is post it. It's long, and intense, and I didn't want to break it up.

_**Dog Eat Dog**_

_**Chapter 30 - New Dog, Old Trick**_

_**One**_

This is where it began, Sam right on the edge of consciousness, muzzily aware of the wall at his back, hearing Bobby Singer cough and breathe heavily as he pulled himself upright. The world went slipsliding away, but it wasn't a vision, not exactly, more of a shared feeling. It came with all the same urgency as those damned visions, but this was different, lightning quick, fast.

Sam heard Dean laugh, a deep-chested, joyful sound.

_I'm not hidin' what I am anymore, Sam, not from you, not from anyone._

Yellow fire sizzled down his nerve endings, through his muscles in perfect time with the two hearts hammering away in his chest, each beat just slightly behind the other. He'd never felt so damn alive before, never in his life like this. Sam couldn't tell where he began and Dean ended and Coyote began, but none of that mattered. All that mattered was the blood and the fight and the fire in his eyes as he lashed out, drove the demon inside the cop backwards, made him hurt, made the bastard bleed.

The feeling was huge, it was vast, and it took Sam a moment to realize that what heDeanCoyote was feeling was joy. Pure and simple. Despite the pain and injuries, he took pleasure in the way his body moved, the inhuman quickness and power in every movement, every gesture.

He caught the scent mixed with fresh wet blood ---

_us-we-blood-family-_

-- his nostrils filled with it -- but it was all wrong, dead wrong, and he backed away, his nerves jumbled, senses screaming out in alarm…

…_a sharp crack of bone, white hot pain that flared like the sun, then darkness…_

Sam cradled his head in his hands, his body shaking with the aftershock. He could feel Dean pushing him away, but not before he caught a glimpse of a young boy, Aaron, one of the special kids from the Demon's safe house, curled up on the ground, somewhere, somewhen, and the kid had markings on his face, around his right eye. Dean growled deep in his throat as he reached down and grabbed the kid by the neck…

Sam came back to himself with a jerk.

At first the sight of the flickering candles on the altar and the high ceiling of the church confuse him. A quick glance at Bobby Singer, sitting there squinting with pain, his back against one of the church pews, quickly reminded Sam where he was.

Sam didn't notice how Bobby's dog stared at the older hunter with wide eyes, and backed away whimpering. He figured the dog was just spooked by everything that had happened so far.

He figured wrong.

All Sam knew was that Dean was nowhere to be seen. The doors to the church were gone, not just open, blown off their hinges –_ gone_ -- and someone inside his mind was calling his name in a too loud voice.

It was a familiar voice, but it wasn't Dean. It wasn't his brother's deep smooth voice, and the sound of this one made Sam's insides clench up painfully.

This voice was full of false good cheer, wide smiles, fire and death and yellow horror.

Sam_ hated_ this voice.

_Come on out here, Sam. Let's talk about your future, shall we?_

_The Colt_, Sam thought frantically. _Where the hell is it…what'd I do with it…_He couldn't find it, didn't see it anywhere. It wasn't on the floor, and he hadn't slipped it underneath the waistband of his jacket.

_And while you're at it, when you __**do**__ find that pop gun, I want you do throw it out first, where I can see it. _

Sam drew back, flinching as the room did a slow lazy turn around him. "Get the hell out of my head," he muttered out loud, rubbing at his eyes with one hand, and Azazel laughed.

_You don't want me to come in there and take the Colt from you, Sam. You really don't. I go where I please, and consecrated ground doesn't make any difference to something like me. Before you do anything stupidly heroic or defiant, think of your brother._

_Oh God, no…_

_Yes. Dean's out here with me._

Sam eased towards the door, and he scowled to himself as the voice purred _That's a good boy_ inside his head. He was being driven, and he knew it. He wouldn't abandon Dean, couldn't ignore Dean's situation, whatever that might be, and Azazel knew _that_, too.

_Take a look outside, Sam. I won't bite._

Sam did. Maureen stood there in the middle of the street, holding the hand of this skinny little waif that he remembered from the safe house. Anna, Annie…something.

Her twin brother Aaron was nowhere to be seen.

The wreck of a marked police cruiser sat at the curb in front of the church, all four of its tires blown, the middle crumpled up as though God had reached down and mangled it like it was a soda can. A large black and tan police dog slunk along the sidewalk. The animal stared up at Sam with an ungodly intelligence shining in those pitch black eyes.

Sam had never seen the cop before. A little older than Sam but probably not as old as Dean. The cop's sandy blonde hair was cut in a crew-cut, his face and body were as broad as a wall. He was tall, as tall as Sam, but broader, muscular. His ripped and tattered uniform was splattered with blood…his blood, Dean's blood, Sam didn't know which. The cop had cuts and bruises all over his body; white bone showed through the broken bloody skin of his cheekbone and his forehead, so Sam figured that Dean had given as good as he'd gotten, but it wasn't enough.

Dear God, it wasn't nearly enough.

The way Dean looked was enough to make Sam stumble backwards, against the door frame. Sam heard a small voice inside his head saying, _no no no_ over and over again and for a moment he even wondered if he'd said the word aloud.

Azazel chuckled. Its murky yellow eyes glowed with grotesque good cheer as he tightened his grip on the collar of Dean's leather jacket and pulled him up on his knees like a puppet.

Dean's arms swung limply at his sides. His eyes were closed, and his head hung at an unnatural angle. The skin of his head and neck was bruised and pale.

Sam didn't have any memories of his mom, had been spared the sight of her dying that night, but he knew what Jessica looked like, pinned to the ceiling of their apartment, could remember the stricken look in her eyes as she stared at him, helpless, dying.

Dad, laying on the floor of his hospital room. Flesh cooling. Quiet. Dead. Gone.

Just like Dean.

And all because of this yellow eyed bastard…

"He's not gone for good, Sammy," Azazel drawled aloud. "You know Dean has this annoying habit of coming back from the dead. He defied me, and I had to get a little rough with him. I've grown kinda fond of both you boys. I still have your best interests at heart. I don't want to hurt Dean any more, but I will unless you throw out that damned Colt. If you boys persist in being disobedient, all I really need is his head and the two hearts. All the rest is dog food."

At that remark the possessed German Shepherd sat down, stared directly at Sam, and wolfishly licked its lips.

There was movement behind him, and Sam gave a quick glance around. Bobby was up on his feet.

"Sam?"

Sam froze.

It was Dean's voice.

Coming out of Bobby Singer's mouth.

Sam really didn't want to turn all the way around, but he did. He had to.

Bobby winked, his pupils a dark gold color. "Hey, Sammy," he rumbled, and his grin was pure Dean. "Miss me?"

_**Two**_

_**Talos, New Mexico**_

She dreamed of blood and death for the past two nights, but this time was the worst. She saw Dean Winchester, his green eyes filled with golden fire. The sound of two hearts beating, each one slightly out of sync with the other echoed throughout his entire being. He killed anything that moved, left nothing alive, and his smile was bright and feral.

Bertha Two Dogs woke up with a start. Her husband Thomas was already awake, just as he'd been for the last two nights. She dimly felt his large hand rub comforting circles on her back, and the look on his broad brown face was somehow solemn and serene at the same time. He grunted softly. "Same dream as before?"

She tasted blood in her mouth, and her nostrils flared with the scent of ozone and smoke. She still couldn't hear for all the high-pitched screaming, the crackle of fire in the background that still echoed in her ears. She nodded, frozen for a moment or two, until all the damn commotion inside her head died down.

She sighed. "He's sick. He's coming. We have to prepare."

Thomas merely nodded.

_**Three**_

"Sammy?"

_That's it_, Sam thought dully, _I am losin' my ever-lovin' mind._ He blinked slowly, shook his head sharply as if to clear it. He knew it wouldn't help, but he did it anyway.

"Dean?" He glanced at Bobby, then looked back at the open doorway.

"You got only one awesome big brother, Sammy." Bobby nodded towards the street. "Don't sweat it. Old Yeller can't hear us."

"Dean, what are you doing inside Bobby?"

Dean stared at him for a moment, quirked an eyebrow at Sam as though the answer was so damned obvious. _And you call yourself a college boy?_ "Gonna put this old man to good use, Sammy," Dean drawled. His voice echoed weirdly, rougher, wilder than usual.

"Good use? _Good use?_ The Demon is gonna kill Bobby if you go out there in him like this."

"So?" Dean lifted Bobby's chin in that stubborn, bullheaded way he had, when he thought he was right because he was the oldest and that was the end of the damn discussion.

"_So?_ Dean, Bobby's been like family to us ever since…ever since Dad died."

"Doesn't matter. Bobby's not family, Sam. Not our blood. Not our kind."

Sam glanced at Bobby up and down, and he was struck by the way Dean's spirit translated so well despite being clothed in the older hunter's skin. Bobby's body stood loose-limbed, relaxed, yet full of coiled energy at the same time. The body language, the posture, was all Dean.

Sam raised his hands up, helplessly. He didn't know whether he was going to grab Bobby, didn't know what the hell he was going to _do_, but he had to do_ something_.

"Not our kind? What the hell are you talking about? You…you can't _do_ this."

Dean cocked his head to one side. "Why not? You don't tell me what to do, Sam." He stared past Sam, at the open doorway. "I can take that yellow-eyed bitch. Make him pay for what he's done to us."

"By getting Bobby killed in the process?"

Dean shrugged carelessly. "My give a damn's busted, Sammy." Bobby took a step forward, and Sam grabbed his right bicep. Bobby's eyes narrowed as he pursed his lips. Sam knew he'd made a mistake, possibly a fatal one. The glow in Bobby's eyes became even brighter.

"Sam?" Dean said warningly. Sam could feel clouds of dark yellow energy gathering in the air around them. Something that felt like static electricity pricked Sam's skin, raised the hair at the back of his neck, rustled in the folds of his clothing.

"You can't _do _this." Sam shook his head again. He was still alive and unharmed so far and_ that_ was a wonder in and of itself. "_You can't_. I'll come with you after this is over –"

Dean laughed, a short barking sound full of sarcasm and viciousness. "You're gonna do _that_ anyway," he said smugly.

"You can't hurt Bobby."

"I can't?" Dean smiled a little. He cocked his head to one side, amused. "Really, Sam? Not even a little bit?"

A small trickle of blood ran from Bobby's nose. Dean smirked as he swiped at it with Bobby's hand.

"Dean…" Sam tightened his grip on Bobby's right bicep.

Dean glanced sharply at Sam's hand, then up at his brother. "I'll come with you," Sam said quickly. "I'll do whatever you say, whenever you say it."

Dean shook his head, scoffed as he bared his teeth._ I've heard this all before. You are so full of shit,_ that look said.

"I won't fight you," Sam said quickly. God, he knew he sounded desperate, and right then and there Sam just didn't give a fuck. He couldn't let Dean do this to Bobby.

Couldn't let Dean do this to _himself_.

"I won't fight you. But you can't use Bobby like this, Dean. You can't. You gotta promise me you'll let him live. Alive and unharmed."

They stood there glaring at each other for a long moment. The energy in the air lashed out, stung Sam on the tip of his nose. It hurt like hell; Sam bit down on the inside of his cheek, but he didn't flinch.

Okay," Dean said a little too quickly. He stopped and stared at Sam, a slight smile tugging at the corners of his lips.

Sam removed his hand. Slowly. Warily. Dean looked like the cat who had just swallowed the canary – or more accurately, the coyote who swallowed the canary. Sam knew the sly look on his brother's face whenever Dean was up to something. It was the look Dean wore now.

"Your choice, Sammy. Your decision. Either I use Bobby or those special kids outside."

"What?"

Dean shrugged. "You gotta choose, 'bro. One or the other."

"Time's up, Sammy," Azazel called out. "For each moment you delay, each moment you keep me waiting, big brother loses the use of a body part. You'll have to carry him around in a bucket by the time I'm done with him…"

"What? No ---" Sam lunged for the door just in time to see Azazel carefully bend back four of the fingers on Dean's right hand and break them.

Behind Sam, Dean said serenely, "You have to chose, dude." What was going on outside didn't seem to bother Dean one bit.

Sam felt a vein in his right temple throb. He staggered back from the door. "All right…all right. The kids…use the kids…"

Dean smiled, wicked sharp and feral. "Showtime."

The glow in Bobby's eyes brightened, and then winked out in a blazing snap of light that nearly blinded Sam momentarily. He heard Bobby groan, dimly saw Bobby's head roll back, eyes white and staring. Bobby's knees buckled, and it was only through pure dumb luck that Sam was able to step close enough to catch the older hunter before he fell to the floor.

_**Four**_

His time sense was all screwed up, had been ever since he got there. Minutes stretched on, seemed more like days, years, hours, a long excruciatingly slow crawl of blood and pain and fear. The only thing he knew was that the moments of relative peace, moments of pain-free calm, were damned few and far in between, and only because he put his mind to it, blocked out the pain and horror of what was happening to him.

He didn't know why they were climbing up. The ones in charge of his torment insisted on it, and he knew he could curse all he wanted to, in the end he did exactly what they wanted him to do. Any other time he would have fought them every step of the way, but there was the little matter of the deal he'd made and it was the _only_ thing that made him toe the line.

_Behave yourself, old man, or your precious eldest son will drop dead. We'll drag him down here, and make him scream while you watch._

No way in hell (sorry) that was gonna happen, so John complied. In the last year he'd been torn apart and put back together so many times he'd lost count. He'd had his heart ripped out of his chest so many times the last time he'd actually quipped, "Gettin' bored now. Is _that _all ya got?"

They switched up and played cat's cradle with his intestines.

At least it was a change of pace. Hell was big on repetition, and John found himself getting used to the routine.

So he climbed upward. He could feel the heat in the rocks underneath his hands and feet, which would have freaked him out at first, since he didn't have a physical body anymore. That didn't mean the bastards couldn't inflict all kinds of hurt on him.

He didn't get tired, but he sure as hell felt it if he slowed down or didn't move fast enough to suit them. Punishment came fast and often, and just to irritate the hell out of them John would lean into the blows and smile.

That drove 'em nuts crazy.

Hours (weeks? years?) ago he sat in a hellscape that looked a lot like Sammy's nursery back in Lawrence, Kansas. John watched his wife Mary on the ceiling ignite and burn a few hundred times before Azazel strolled in laughing.

"How you doing, John? Keeping busy? You're not bored, are ya?"

John turned and glared at it.

The Demon stood there and watched Mary bleed and burn again and it smiled, wide and bright. "Been thinking about lettin' you see your boys one day. It's a shame to separate a parent from his boys, wouldn't you say? 'Course, you know the truth about Sammy and the other special children now, and I almost forgot, you didn't treat ol' Coyote too well the last time you saw him. He's out now. Your boy Dean's just as fucked up as he ever was, and he might not be too happy to see you. You let your boy down, Daddy. How could you have let that..._thing_ stay inside him all those years?"

John growled, low and dangerous, and the next thing he knew he was up on his feet and he had his hands firmly around Azazel's throat. The bastard faded out like a bad memory and John was left standing there with his hands full of empty air.

It seemed like years later when a large pale demon sidled up to him, grinning like a maniac.

_Let's go, monkey boy. Time to take a walk._

Now it was one foot after another. One handhold after another. John kept his face carefully blank as he climbed. He didn't let on, didn't dare hope that he was actually going to see his boys again. He couldn't even let himself think about what kind of mental state his boys would be in when and if he did see them. It might be a trick, just another way to fuck with his mind.

And if it wasn't?

Letting John see his sons again, even for a moment, would be the biggest mistake that yellow-eyed bastard could _ever_ make.


	31. Chapter 31 Every Dog Has Its Day

A/N: This chapter contains some pretty gruesome imagery. Just thought I'd warn you guys.

Disclaimer: Don't own 'em, just playin' with 'em for a while.

_**Then:**_ Dean proves that death is only the beginning, and Sam has a hard decision to make.

**Now:** As promised, Dean (Coyote) Winchester versus Azazel, round two.

**Dog Eat Dog**

**Chapter 31 – Every Dog Has Its Day**

Maureen sighed as the inside of her head momentarily turned a dark golden color. She was used to these subtle mental touches; it was the yellow-eyed man's way of telling her that he loved her so.

She opened her eyes and looked down at her body and all the good feeling she had inside her drained away as though it had never been.

_Not again, _she thought._ Not fucking again._

Maureen's fingers shook as she ran her hands over the dark bruises and scratches on her arms. Daddy liked to talk with his hands, tried to beat those special abilities right out of her on more than one occasion and by the looks of things he'd obviously done it again. Mama never tried to stop him, not even one time, and once she'd told Maureen, "Why don't you try being normal like everyone else?"

_Bitch_.

Daddy stood right beside her, and at first Maureen couldn't understand it because he seemed smaller somehow, but it was _him_, all right. She_ knew_ it was him.

"Don't move, Papa," she told him, and his eyes widened and then dulled as she reached out at him with her mind. "Stay right there."

Maureen smiled a little as she felt the muscles of Daddy's throat quiver underneath her fingertips, and then she began to squeeze…

"He always liked you best," Aaron whispered, and Annie couldn't understand where Aaron had come from. She couldn't understand why his hands were around her neck, why the yellow-eyed man didn't do anything to stop him. Aaron seemed taller, and his hands were bigger somehow.

"Never did like you," Aaron whispered. "You remember when you were little and you fell down the stairs and almost broke your neck? I did _that_. That was _me_. After you're gone I'll have the yellow-eyed man all to myself. He doesn't like you anymore. If he did, I wouldn't be able to do_ this_."

She couldn't move and she couldn't breathe and all she could do was stand there while his hands tightened around her neck…

Azazel frowned. It really hadn't expected Sam to be so damned _stubborn_, especially when it came to Dean's safety and well-being. Even though Dean wasn't hiding Coyote anymore, it was unlikely that Sam had hardened his heart against his older brother. That intense family bond between the brothers was something that Azazel expected to use against them.

Whatever the cause for the delay, Dean would have to pay the price.

Azazel very carefully took Dean's right wrist in one of its host's massive hands and crushed the bones in Dean's wrist.

It cupped Dean's dead face with both hands, tilted his head upwards. The Demon took the tips of its thumbs and gently pushed up Dean's eyelids, exposing Dean's eyes. They were a washed out brownish green color now, with no golden glint in the pupils, nothing to suggest power or energy, or even life.

Azazel directed the full force of its mind into Dean's eyes. Brownish green turned to glazed milky white as cataracts formed on the surface of those once vibrant eyes.

Dean _would_ return; Azazel was sure of it. And when he did, maybe having to deal with so many injuries would break him down, make the brat more _agreeable_. After all, the link connecting Dean to Aaron (nearly dead, poor boy was on demon life-support, so to speak) was still in place. If Dean persisted in being stubborn, using the link was another way Azazel could inflict damage on him, and the boy would never even know what hit him.

Azazel glanced up at the doorway, then down at the limp body in his hand.

The hair on the corpse was shoulder-length, auburn colored, not dark blond, short and spiky. The body was smaller, slender, not muscular and broad-shouldered.

Frowning, Azazel tilted the head back to get a closer look, and the Demon scowled darkly at the pale dead face.

Maureen.

A familiar voice chuckled darkly behind him, and it swung around.

Dean Winchester stood there with his hands around Annie's throat. Annie's face was white with fear; her eyes practically bulged out of their sockets.

Dean waited until Azazel turned around all the way and then in one smooth, practiced motion he twisted Annie's neck all the way around to the back. The skin of her neck bunched up around her shoulders, like a loose fitting coat she hadn't learned to button up yet. Annie's eyes rolled up into her head and her body slumped bonelessly to the ground.

Dean smiled slyly, his green eyes glinted gold in the center. "Oops. I broke it."

Azazel dropped Maureen to the ground, turned, and walked around the police cruiser towards him.

In some deep corner of his confused mind, Chambers the cop recognized Dean from the on-line FBI database. Chambers' actually thought he was arresting Dean Winchester, an extremely dangerous fugitive from the law, and if the perp put up a fight while resisting arrest, well then, so be it.

That suited Azazel just fine. It didn't have to expend that much energy controlling the cop. Azazel was on a timetable. It had places to go, people and demons at the hellmouth to see. Dean was the key to opening the hellmouth, and one way or another, either dead or alive in pieces, he was going to serve his purpose.

Dean's eyes flared bright yellow, and Azazel blinked rapidly as the energies the boy unleashed lashed at Chambers' skin. A minor annoyance; it healed the damage as quickly as Dean inflicted it.

Chambers drove his fists repeatedly into Dean's face and body, and the cop smiled as he felt the smaller man's bones break. Azazel reached out with its mind into Dean's chest. It was momentarily startled to find only one heart beating, but then quickly located the other heart and squeezed them both. Hard.

Dean tried to wriggle out from under him, but Chambers bore down on him with all his weight. Dean groaned, deep in his throat, arched his back in pure agony and the fear and pain in those wide green eyes fueled Azazel and Chambers, made them pound Dean even harder with it mind and his fists.

Damn kid was as stubborn as his daddy, Azazel thought. All those damn Winchesters were more trouble than they were worth.

**00000**

Inside the church Sam sat with his back to the open doorway as he cradled Bobby Singer's unconscious body in his arms. Sam's head was down, his chin almost to his chest. He stared down at the floor, his face curiously blank. The disconnect from reality was complete, and felt somehow comforting, which only served to remind Sam on some dim level how fucked up his life was at that very moment. It was good not to think, good not to feel.

Sam felt the rising tide of Dean's emotions form into a quick succession of images that showed what was happening outside. This was the Omimax version of events, 360 degrees all around, cosmic High Definition, complete with Surroundsound. Sam was swept along in Dean's wake as Dean slipped in and out, full-on Obi Wan Kenobe'd everyone's heads.

Big brother was in his happy place, and he'd dragged Sam right in there with him. Sam was too out of it to put up much of a fight.

Besides, he'd promised Dean he wouldn't, in exchange for Bobby's life.

The Ilimu possessed police dog whimpered as it sensed the brothers, and it slunk into the bushes along the parking lot next to the church.

It occurred to Sam that right at that moment Dean looked exactly like the things they used to hunt. Sam chuckled, despite himself. Hell, _that _was the pot calling the kettle _black_.

Dean went about tricking Azazel and the others into killing each other with the same intensity and passion that he showed while hunting.

_Everything_ had changed, and_ nothing_ had changed.

**00000**

Dean's broken dead body lay at the foot of the church steps, on the other side of the police car. A flare of dark golden light reflected off that wide silver washer ring on Dean's finger. The light traveled down the length of Dean's arm, seeped into his pale dead skin like rain into parched desert soil. His skin took on a faint glow. It shone around him, through him.

The broken fingers on Dean's right hand twitched, then straightened.

Dean's sightless white eyes blinked open. He stood up, unsteadily at first, like a puppet whose strings were tangled up.

On the other side of the police car Maureen's body flopped around bonelessly as Azazel, smiling and bloody, continued to pound away at her.

Something thumped at the back of Azazel's skull, a light, almost playful touch. It didn't notice at first, it was so caught up in the excitement of the kill. It could keep Dean's body intact (more or less) until it arrived at the Wal-Mart hellmouth, but it couldn't resist taking its frustration out on the eldest.

And Sammy, well, Sammy was_ next_. He was the Chosen One, all right, but he was due for a little discipline himself, some hellish Toughlove, and Azazel promised itself it was going to enjoy _that_ too.

The next thump to the back of the head was a lot more forceful. Chambers' broad head rocked forward, and then back.

Then there was the matter of the voice inside its head, an insolent, deep drawl that suddenly grated on the Demon's nerves.

_You've been punk'd, bitch._

Azazel stared down at Dean, only it wasn't Dean. It was Maureen.

Azazel turned around slowly, one of its large hands hooked into the front of Maureen's blood soaked denim dress. It felt Chambers startle as his vision cleared, as the young cop realized that he had killed a woman, a civilian, instead. Azazel cursed as he pushed the cop even deeper inside his own mind.

The Demon stared at Dean, then back at Maureen again, and it smiled despite itself.

Dean's eyes were bright green again, blazed with that same dark golden spark. He looked perfect. Untouched. He stood alive and unharmed in the center of a fiery dark golden halo. The shape of the corona shifted into the outline of a massive coyote, and as Azazel watched the energy signature lifted its head to the heavens and opened its mouth as it howled at the moon above.

Damn kid sure knew how to make an entrance.

Dean made a casual "come hither" gesture at Azazel with the same four fingers that were broken and shattered just moments before. He looked almost bored with the whole proceedings, as if he'd rather hurry up because he had something better to do, a more interesting place to be than here.

"Heh. Look what you made me do," the Demon rumbled. It let the ruin of Maureen's body slip to the ground. The front of Chambers'uniform was slick with blood and gore.

The link. There was still that, at least. Dean could still die from a massive double coronary, especially if he didn't know it was coming, couldn't defend against it….

Dean smiled, bright and feral. He raised his left hand, palm out. "Looking for this?"

The link nestled in the palm of Dean's hand, bright and shiny, and totally useless to Azazel.

"Say goodbye to your boy," Dean drawled lazily. The link turned red, then glowed with an intense black heat as fire erupted from Dean's fingers and engulfed it.

Half a mile away, in the ruins of the safe house, Azazel felt Aaron's skin blacken and turn to ash as flames swept over his body. The boy was so far gone he didn't even scream.

_Last one gone,_ Sam thought dully. _Last one._ He felt too numb to even hate himself.

The link disintegrated into fine grey ash. Dean carelessly flicked it into the air with his fingers.

Azazel circled to the left. Dean circled right, around to the front of the cruiser. The air between them crackled with unseen energies and the remains of the cruiser took the blunt of it. What was left of the car shook, rattled and trembled. The windshield cracked; the door panels buckled with a loud groan of tortured metal. Deep inside the frame of the car bolts snapped, screws untwisted.

"You're such a clever little dog, Dean," Azazel murmured, and it actually felt some grudging admiration. The boy had real talent, a well-deserved reputation for trickery, no doubt about it. "Never knew you were so…bloody-minded." It gestured at Maureen's broken body, Annie lying dead and twisted nearby. "I just don't know why we can't just get along, you know? You're just like me."

Dean quirked an eyebrow. "No, I'm better."

They continued to circle each other.

"I was old when this mudball was still just a glimmer in the eye of the Creator," Azazel purred. "When I was young I killed creatures like _you_ for practice, long before you ever set foot or paw on earth, boy. You do_ not_ know who you are dealing with."

Dean barked laughter. "I don't? Huh." He shook his head. "I'm dealing with a punk-ass bitch demon who can't handle anything stronger than babies and women." Dean smirked. "Come on, Ozzie. You gonna kill me, or you gonna _talk_ me to death?"

The murky yellow of Azazel's eyes flickered and deepened. Dean caught the movement, sensed the change in air pressure, and he braced himself. Things got pretty bad pretty damn quickly.

The police cruiser disintegrated into pieces, shattered glass and bits of twisted metal. It exploded outward in slow-motion, a pretty impressive special effect that Industrial Light and Magic would have been pretty damn proud of. The pieces tumbled lazily in mid-air as the cloud of debris expanded itself. Azazel surged through the air-borne debris, swatted pieces of it aside, and he was on Dean before Dean could move out of the way, slamming into him with enough force to send the trickster avatar sprawling.

Azazel lifted Dean off his feet as he was forced backwards. One arm got pinned down to Dean's side as Azazel wrapped his arms around Dean's waist and squeezed.

Dean arched his back, tried to gain breathing room.

There wasn't any. He put the heel of his free hand underneath Chambers' massive chin and pushed backwards with all his strength. Dean used his mind, focused his attention on the parts of Chambers he could reach, his head and neck.

The cords on Chambers' thick neck stood out like thick steel cables, but it was no good, the damn Demon repaired the damage even as Dean ripped through the man's flesh. The cop's skin rippled and his uniform tattered as Dean struck out at him again and again.

Pieces of debris changed direction in mid-air, sliced into Azazel and Chambers, embedded themselves deep inside the cop's flesh. Dean tore street signs from their posts. Sharp edged metal whickered through the air end on end so fast they were barely visible, until they hit flesh.

A "No Parking" sign torn from a nearby signpost embedded itself halfway into Chambers' broad back. Another street sign clipped the cop's left leg, shattered his kneecap. Azazel ignored the damage, held up the meatsuit up with the power of its mind and tightened its grip around Dean's waist even further.

Black spots formed at the edge of Dean's vision. His heart hammered away in his chest, and his oxygen starved lungs burned. The bones in his trapped arm cracked.

The low groan of pain from Dean's lips was music to Azazel's ears. Azazel smiled as he speared Dean's left thigh with the cop car's radio antenna. Smaller sharp edged pieces sliced into Dean's back, his head and neck. Azazel pushed forward with its head and shoulders, bent Dean's arm back against his chest. Azazel lunged, and Chambers'mouth widened, gaping and monstrous, like a shark's maw, filled with way too many sharp, jagged teeth, sharp.

It sunk its teeth into Dean's shoulder, and despite himself Dean screamed out then, loud and long.

Azazel felt his stance shift as the concrete underneath his feet rippled. It was ankle deep in the thick grey slop before it realized that the concrete solidified again, just as quickly, locking it into place.

Jaws agape, mouth smeared with blood, the Demon jerked its head backwards. Dean looked down at him, and it was right about then that Azazel felt fear, for the first time in its long life.

Dean smiled at him.

"I said…I'd show you," Dean gasped. "Show you…how to cast lightning. Always keep…my promises…"

The maroon sky overhead boiled with thunderclouds. Lightning flashed at the core of the clouds, faint at first, then stronger. Azazel felt the hair on the back of Chambers' head stand straight up.

The rumble of thunder shook the street, sent vibrations through the pieces of metal piercing the cop's flesh. Azazel's eyes widened as it realized that metal is a damn good conductor of electricity.

And Dean never stopped smiling.

It was time to go.

Chambers head jerked back violently, and his mouth opened wide for the very last time. Azazel came boiling out, noxious black oily smoke, as the thunder rolled overhead and everything went blinding white hot…

**00000**

**Next up:** Bobby and the boys take a trip to Wal-Mart, and things well and truly go to hell from there.


	32. Chapter 32 Cold Equation

A/N: Okay, I'm waay late with this. No excuse. Slap me ten times with a wet noodle. I'm postponing the final battle at the Wal-Mart hellmouth for this one chapter.

Why?

I wanna see some of that legendary Winchester angst, 'cause that's the kinda fangirl I am.

What can I say, during all the violence and paranormal spectacle I missed the angst, so here it is.

Disclaimer: I don't own the boys. Darn it.

Italics indicate flashbacks and thoughts. John's are taken from Chapter 21, when he first confronted Coyote.

Spoilers: In My Time Of Dying, Scarecrow

_**Then:**_ Dean (Coyote) Winchester versus YED, round two

_**Now: **_An intermission: Hurt!Coyote Dean and Sam!Comfort. First Papa John angst, then on to the boys…

_**Dog Eat Dog**_

_**Chapter 32 – Cold Equation **_

_**One**_

"He coulda saved _himself_, Johnny. Your boy didn't need you," the pale demon whispered as it flitted ghost-like in the hot murky air around him.

_Here we go with the half-assed psych tactics,_ John Winchester thought dryly. He rolled his eyes, and reached up for another handhold in the rocks.

Another one curved through the air over his head. "In the hospital, after the crash."

And here came the third and fourth. "He coulda saved himself at any time."

"You know that, don't you?" the fourth one shrieked.

Their laughter echoed off the rocks, cut through the hot murky air, full of viciousness and spite. "Ever wonder why he _didn't_?"

"I know you're gonna tell me anyway, you dumb bastards," John muttered underneath his breath.

The palest one giggled and hovered in the air right in front of him. "He wanted to get rid'a you."

"_I don't mean any harm, John. You must know that."_

"_You're…you're not my son. You're not Dean." _

John gritted his teeth, narrowed his eyes, and kept on climbing right past it.

That wasn't the reaction it expected, and the demon shot up into the air, past his left ear, hissing.

The others were more persistent. They curved through the air around John, brushed up against him, feather-light as they ruffled his hair, then knocked against him hard enough to almost send him to his knees.

"That wild little dog played you, _Daddy_."

_You're some unnatural, ungodly fugly, the same as that yellow-eyed bastard that killed my wife. Our lives were destroyed because of a thing like you._

"Tricked you,_ hunter_."

"Played 'ya like a fiddle."

"_I want my boy back."_

"Got your ass out of his _way_, now and forever."

"You failed your boy, daddy. How could you have let that…_thing_ stay inside him all those years?"

"_Dad…" Dean swallowed hard. He was skirting chick flick territory with this one, but something nagged at him and he couldn't ignore it. He'd been feeling disconnected to everything all day, like he was just a passenger in his body. Dad would tell him if anything was wrong. If anything was wrong Dad could fix it, set things right. "Are you mad at me about somethin'?"_

John kept his mind blank, and he climbed, dammit.

He didn't think of Dean, or Sam. Didn't think about Coyote ---

"_You're not Dean. You're __not__ my son—"_

_Coyote frowned. He seemed intent on trying to make John understand something that John didn't __want__ to understand.__ "Yes, I am…"_

_John was up on the ledge before he even realized it. He reached out, fisted the lapels of Dean's jacket with both hands. He jerked Dean's body towards him, and Coyote immediately stilled. They stood there, nose to nose._

"_You're __not__. You hear me, you unnatural sumbitch? You're __not__." John shook Coyote twice, hard, for emphasis. "We hunt down and kill evil things like you," John grated out._

--- and whether or not his own son had in fact tricked him.

No good would come of thinking like that.

He was surrounded as he climbed; he supposed that he should feel flattered. His escort was composed of six demons and ten wraiths. He'd never seen their like before, and it occurred to him that quite possibly some of these fuckers had never been topside before, or if they had been, lore on what they were and how to deal with them was rare or even non-existent, so he was content to observe them while he kept on climbing.

The demons shifted from long strings of boiling black smoke to man-shapes, other times switching to monstrous hulking four-legged shapes. The wraiths were reverse negatives of people, grayish black bruises where their facial features should have been. Their clothes were old, eighteenth century, even older.

They actually seemed disappointed when he didn't react, when he didn't even try to swat at them with his hands. He wasn't going to waste precious time and energy doing that.

In 'Nam Charlie tried the same psychological bullshit; John and the other Marines ignored their asses. It was best to just keep on operating same as usual, unless you got solid evidence to the contrary.

It might have been minutes, hours, days later, and he was mildly surprised when he reached the top. Looked like the reverse side of a common ordinary hardwood floor, and the demons scowled and hissed at him when he paused and looked at it. He closed his eyes as he pushed upwards, more out of habit than anything else. John felt a strong tug on his insides (and he'd always wondered about _that_, because he didn't have a body anymore) and then he was up and through.

He was wherever they wanted him to be.

John blinked slowly as his eyes adjusted to the gloom of the place. It was another human habit he couldn't wean himself from. It used to be a pretty nice two story brick house. Used to be, until a bomb or whatever had hit it.

The only thing holding the roof up was a prayer; damn thing would collapse in a really strong wind. What was left of the walls had graffiti on them, and these particular taggers had to be on the cultured side, because John recognized Latin and even some Sumerian words. Debris and broken furniture littered the floor and this weird-ass maroon-colored night sky was visible through the hole in the roof.

The rest of his escort pushed their way up through the floor around him, and John kept his face carefully blank as he looked around. His expression didn't change, even when he looked down at the floor and found himself staring at what looked like the body of his eldest son.

Dead.

One of the wraiths laughed. "Ain't he purty? Purty little ol' dead boy." It grinned at John, knelt and ran its fingers through that spiky dark blond hair. Ghostly fingers gently skimmed over the side of that familiar pale dead face. Wide green eyes stared unblinkingly at the maroon night sky overhead.

John just stood there.

The fingers of his right hand twitched.

"Settle down, monkey boy."

"Just jerkin'you around."

"That's _not_ your brat."

"Not _yet_, anyway."

"We're goin' shoppin'. That's what you apes _like_, right?"

There was a charred heap of ashes in the vague shape of a small human in what was left of the hallway and just before he faded out with the others John briefly wondered what the hell _that_ was all about.

_**Two**_

Thunder rolled, and Dean screamed out in rage, pain and hatred.

"_Gone…" _Dean growled, _"I had him, and the bastard is gone…"_

Fire roared through Sam's veins, white hot, burning. The air pressure around him pressed against his skin and his eardrums expanded so painfully he ducked his head, tightened his grip on Bobby.

Bobby stirred then. Weakly. Through the haze Sam felt Bobby's chest rise and fall against his arms, but Sam's muscles were locked in place and he couldn't relax his grip.

"What the hell. Sam?" Bobby gasped.

Everything went blinding white.

No breath sounds. No heart beat. Nothing. Sam couldn't feel air pressing against his skin, or the weight of his clothes against his body. Sam couldn't feel Bobby anymore. His sense of direction was shot to hell. He couldn't tell if he was sitting on the floor or standing up. It was a white out, as far as the eye could see. Total nothingness. Blankness.

_I'm stuck like this,_ Sam thought to himself. _Stuck in limbo like this forever _and Sam tried to tell himself to _calm down, to think, panicking wasn't gonna solve anything , _but it was no good. Just this one simple thing, being trapped in all this blankness, a total absence of color, deprived of all his senses, was making him doubt his own sanity. He was holding on by his fingernails, and his grip was slipping.

He was gonna lose it.

He _was_ losing it. Completely. Totally.

The moment stretched forward, like a rubber band, seemed to go on forever, and then it snapped back.

Sam heard breath sounds, felt his lungs pull in air, and expand, felt the exhale and nearly laughed aloud. His heart beat and thumped in his chest. Adrenaline surge. He didn't think ghosts still had those kinds of physical reactions, so that was a hopeful sign. Something hard underneath the soles of his feet. Tension in both legs, and okay, he was on his feet. Didn't know how, didn't much care how. He forced himself to stay still, to stand there in one place until his vision cleared up. It was the first to go, and the last to come back.

Sam waited.

He was getting used to all this shifting and fading, from one place to another, and he wasn't sure if that was a good thing or not.

Something cool and hard pressed against his back.

Bricks.

Sam began processing clues as soon as they came in, by touch, feel and smell, tried to identify where he was_ this_ time. Wasn't the church, that was for sure. Different smell altogether. They'd used some sort of lemon polish on the wooden pews, and Sam couldn't smell that anymore.

This smelled like fruit. He sniffed again, wrinkling his nose.

Apples.

The air space overhead felt different, more enclosed. The church had high ceilings. This was more of a closed-in feeling. Less space over his head.

His sight came back slowly. Pitch black lightened, went to soft dark gray.

Sam was patient. He stood there.

The gray lightened. Looked like someone had gone apeshit crazy with a photo manipulation program, softened everything into one slightly nauseating looking blur of shades and textures.

Sam waited.

His vision cleared up with an almost audible snap that made his had hurt. Sam flinched. No half measures here, and everything in this damned place seemed to require a price, either in blood or some other kind of physical discomfort.

He wondered how Dean coped with it.

Sam looked around and frowned. Fruit cellar. He was in a damn fruit cellar. Makeshift wooden shelves, bins covered in chicken wire. Empty Mason jars and lids all over the place. Wooden baskets of picked red and yellow apples lined the rough stone walls. Off to the right there was a short flight of wooden stairs that led up to a wooden storm door. Sam didn't recognize the place, and he was pretty sure he'd never been wherever "here" was.

_What the__** hell**__ is this?_

_Burkitsville,_ a familiar voice inside his head said faintly, _Fun Town USA._

_Dean? _Sam looked around and couldn't see him._ Why here?_

Sam could almost see those broad shoulders shrug. _Good as place as any. _Dean sounded tired. _Friggin' apple pie wasn't worth it __**then**__, either._

Sam was past being surprised.

_**Where**__ are we?_

_In between place, Sammy._

_In between? In between__** what?**_

Sam got a strong visual impression of Dean scowling, as though Sam should have understood, and Dean couldn't understood _why_ Sam didn't understand. _In between everything, everywhere, little brother, _Dean rumbled.

_Everything? Are we dead?_

_In-between, _Dean drawled.

_Talks like Yoda he does,_ Sam thought dryly, and Dean laughed.

Sam felt a pull on his right side, and he turned in that direction.

Dean faded in, sitting on the floor, his back wedged up into the corner. It was a neat special effect, not quite as smooth as the teleportation effects in "Star Trek." At one point Dean was see through, a mirage; Sam could see could see those empty Mason jars and tin lids on the other side. Sam had the impression that pulling himself into _here_, where ever _here_ was, was one hell of a struggle. Dean closed his eyes as he concentrated; he finally went solid and stayed that way.

Dean looked normal, unbloodied, not a mark on him, but he didn't get up.

That was how Sam knew something was seriously wrong. Dean would have immediately gotten to his feet if he could. Showing visible weakness, even to Sam, just wasn't in Dean's chracter, no matter what that character happened to be at the moment. That damn pit in Sam's stomach grew a little heavier, a little bigger as he realized that he would have preferred seeing Dean yellow-eyed, twisted, rageful, rather than sitting there with his back against the wall, looking dazed and confused.

Sammy…" Dean whispered softly, hoarsely.

"Dean…" Sam came over, knelt down. He put a hand out and his fingers skimmed right through Dean's right shoulder. Something stung Sam's fingers. At the same time Sam felt weak, light-headed. Dean shuddered as his breath hitched in his chest.

The fingers of Sam's hand felt frozen. He'd had a mild case of frostbite on a hunt up near the US Canadian border last year, and this felt pretty much the same. Sam jerked his hand back, stared at the tips of his fingers. They were pale, as if the life had been nearly leached out of them.

Sam rubbed his thumb over his fingertips. The color and feeling came back slowly.

Dean's image shifted, and that perfect image of him fell away.

His eyes were green, tired looking, but normal, and that was the _only _normal looking thing about him.

Dean looked like he'd gone fifteen rounds toe-to-toe with the Incredible Hulk, and Sam could only wonder what the Demon looked like.

Sam squinted at the piece of long metal that protruded from Dean's thigh. Damn thing looked like a car radio antenna, and he fought against the desire to just lean down and pull it out. He could see bits and pieces of sharp painted metal in Dean's right shoulder, sticking out of his neck, arms, and head. Dark bruises painted the side of Dean's head, neck and shoulders. The left shoulder of his leather jacket was ripped, bloody and shredded. The puncture marks in Dean's skin were deep, in a jagged circular pattern.

Dean's left arm lay loosely in his lap. His right arm hung at a peculiar angle at his side. The bones were broken. Probably crushed.

"Sammy…don't touch me." Dean croaked.

Dean swallowed thickly, then tried again, in a calmer tone of voice.

"Sam…please…don't touch me. Just…don't…" He almost sounded normal, and anyone who didn't really know Dean wouldn't realize that he was afraid. Sam picked up on the tone and despite himself, drew back a little.

"Dean, what's wrong with you?"

Dean stared dazedly at Sam, at him, through him, like a deer caught in the headlights of an oncoming car.

"Dean?"

Sam recognized that look. He'd seen it on the faces of the people on hunts that went south. He'd seen that faraway look on their faces as they died.

"…wrong…" Dean whispered hoarsely. "…all…wrong…" His eyes rolled shut and his head bobbled.

Sam felt his heart jump sideways like a startled foal. "Hey. Hey!" He sounded too harsh and too loud to his own ears. "Dean? Dean! Stay with me, man."

Dean's eyelids blinked open slowly. "Dude," he said blearily. "Use your inside voice." He stared dully at Sam, and Sam felt his skin prickle with a sense of Otherworldliness.

Dean's face relaxed, a slight loosening of tension, flaring yellow eyes again, and Coyote was out.

Coyote stared up at Sam as if he were really seeing Sam for the first time, and Sam could swear he saw fear in his eyes.

"all wrong…all dark…" Dean's voice. Lower, deeper, with a slight accent that Sam didn't recognize. "…before…could heal myself.…dark now… doesn't work… that way..."

"What way? Tell me. What are you talking about?"

Coyote blinked tiredly. "…touch me, I take your life….take enough from you…and you'll die."

"I don't…I don't get it…you could heal yourself before…"

"…dark now…different…rules…" Coyote smiled a little then, sadly. "What part'a that don't you understand, little boy?"

"You could stop yourself, take only what you need…"

Coyote shook his head. "…won't… I need…to take it all…please, Sam…don't leave us…" Coyote stared at Sam hungrily, then his eyes narrowed when Sam didn't move towards him.

The glow in Dean's eyes disappeared, but Sam could still feel it. This wasn't Dean, it was Coyote.

Bastard was being tricky, trying to lure Sam in. "Please, Sammy...help me..."

He sounded like Dean. He looked like Dean.

Sam didn't move.

Coyote blinked. Dean's eyes widened when he saw Sam, and the look of fear and concern in those tired green eyes convinced Sam to edge a little closer. Coyote was a damned good actor, but Sam felt the pull of Dean's spirit.

"…don't…get away from me, Sam…." Dean tried to push himself even further back into the wall.

"So that's it, huh?" Sam indicated their surroundings with a shrug of his shoulders. You're gonna die and leave me stuck here?"

"I die…you'll go back…you don't belong here…"

"You're my brother. You really think I'd ditch you like this?" Sam moved closer.

"Don't have any choice in the matter," Dean breathed. "Can't save everyone...not even me. You know that..."

Sam's eyes narrowed. "I can still try."

There was no easy way to do this. It would hurt like hell any way he did it, so Sam decided it was better to be quick about it. Sam sat down next to Dean, leaned over, wrapped his arms around him, and pulled him over onto his lap.

Sam was afraid to touch him.

He was afraid to let go.

"…damn you…" Dean rasped. "...get the hell off me..." He sounded lost, despairing, wounded. "Don't touch me…Sammy…don't…don't…"

Sam kept his mind blank as he cradled Dean right up against him. He ignored the sickening feel of broken bones moving and shifting underneath Dean's skin.

Dean bit back the scream rising in his throat. He arched his back, tried to move away, but he was too weak, and they both knew it. The temperature in the room seemed to drop immediately, and Sam ignored it. He hugged Dean so tightly he got blood on his clothes again, second time in eight hours, and Sam just didn't give a damn.

"…Sam, get off me...get off..."

The cold crept over him, settled deep inside the folds of his clothing, and it wasn't so bad at first. Sam held Dean's arms by his wrists in his lap . He could feel the bones in Dean's shattered left wrist poke sharply against Dean's skin. And through it all Sam could feel Dean's two hearts beat, weakly, out of sync with each other.

"I just don't understand you. I ...I don't think I ever will.." Sam laid the side of his cheek against the top of Dean's head. "When…when I started having those visions, I t-thought you'd l-leave me. Thought I'd wake up one morning and…and you'd be gone. Th-thought you'd ditch me. You n-never did. Nuh…no matter what, you stuck by me. N-now that we find out there's something s-special about you, you think I'm gonna…gonna ditch you, t-turn on you, leave you? Damn, man, you…you really think I'm that s-shallow?"

"…no…" Dean choked out. "Sammy…don't do this…you don't have to do this..."

It was getting harder to think, harder to speak. Didn't really matter. He could always push Dean away from him when it got too bad. He really could. "N-not g-gonna l-leave you…not g-goin'…a-anywhere…"

It occurred to Sam that slurring was not a good sign but he really didn't care.

It was like going to sleep, that was all, Sam thought dully. His skin felt hard and cold, but it was no big deal. He could barely feel his fingers or his arms but he didn't relax his grip on Dean. It was getting harder to keep his eyes open, but that was okay.

They could rest here together for a while. Just for a few minutes, that was all….

_**000000**_

Okay, now that I've gotten a good dose of Winchester angst, it's business as usual in the next chapter. The battle concludes at Wal-Mart (AKA The Most Hellish Place On Earth).


	33. Chapter 33 Frogs For Snakes

A/N: This is a long one, guys, and that is why I decided to cut it in half. The next chapter will be posted tomorrow. Didn't want to delay getting this one out there, so here it is.

I am very much aware that a lot of you are at work when you're reading this, dodging your evil employers and the office snitches. I feel your pain. Got the idea for Dean's "whirly-gig" transport sequence from the Buffy episode in which Willow goes Dark Phoenix.

Disclaimer: Don't own the boys, darn it!

_**Then:**_ An intermission: Hurt!Coyote Dean and Sam!Comfort. First Papa John angst, then on to the boys…

_**Now:**_ Dean (Coyote) Winchester versus YED, first part of final round

_**Dog Eat Dog**_

_**Chapter 33 - **_**Frogs For Snakes**

**One**

Azazel raged and cursed as it curved through that maroon night sky over the church.

It surged past a flock of birds that took flight at its approach, and every pigeon in the flock dropped dead, shrunken, eyes blank and glazed white from the inside heat that burned them from the inside out. Shriveled gray feathers blackened, dropped to the cracked and bloody pavement like large flakes of ash.

Azazel's anger made car tires melt and blow out as it passed overhead. Windshields blew out; clouds of fine glass particles sprayed everywhere. Car alarms went off and continued to warble and wail until the electrical system shorted and sizzled and the wires burned completely out.

There was still a way to salvage this whole mess. The hellmouth still needed to be opened, from the earthside.

It had one vessel left. The last one, but certainly not the least.

_**Two**_

_I'm fighting myself_, Dean thought. _Talk about a tired ass cliché_. Coyote shifted into his four legged form, and Dean became a mirror image as they circled one another in the fruit cellar. Coyote was laughing, joyous as he felt Sam's life flow into him. Dean moved stiff-legged, his head slightly down, his tail curved down low. He bared sharp white teeth, and Coyote laughed.

_He practically jumped into our arms, niño. _Coyote laughed and Dean's eyes narrowed to slits. _I never turn down a gift, boy. Never._

Dean could hear and feel Sam's heart as it struggled to pump thickened blood through suddenly stiffening veins and arteries. One beat, and then a long pause, and then another, followed by an even longer pause.

Sam was slowly slipping away.

_Don't have time for this shit_, Dean snarled to himself. Maybe the Old Man didn't thought Dean would fight just hard enough to keep up appearances, that was all, just enough to soothe his own guilty conscience. Maybe ol' Roamer figured that if he could delay Dean long enough, it wouldn't matter.

He figured wrong.

When it came to Sammy? No fucking contest.

Dean feinted to the left and Coyote followed the motion. Damn fool left his right side exposed, and Dean lunged into the opening. He slammed his shoulder into Coyote's chest, knocked him completely off his feet, onto his back. Dean saw the Old Man's eyes go wide in fear and disbelief as he went down. Dean's jaws clamped down on the soft part of Coyote's exposed throat and Coyote froze.

_We got somethin' that belongs to my brother, _Dean thought. _I'm givin' it back._ Pale blue light and energy flooded his mouth, crackled and surged in his mouth. Dean tasted _Sam_, Sam's life, past, present and future. Dean tasted Sam's fear of him, fear _for_ him, Sam's love and concern for him. Dean wrinkled his muzzle up at the demon taint. There was confusion, and at the end _hope_, just like the last thing left in Pandora's box.

Dean sunk his teeth into Coyote's throat and pulled for all he was worth.

_**000000**_

…_yelling at each other just don't understand why Dean doesn't take a side he never does just stands there with shadows in his eyes and that wounded look on his face God I was so glad when I got the hell out of there Jess's mouth tastes like fresh peaches and cream tried to save her wanted to Dean yelling at me pushing me back out of the room never thought anything else could hurt so damn much Dad lying on the floor of that fucking hospital room so pale still can't wake him up flames so damn bright lost so many people already black smoke all around can't breathe chest hurts no breath no way Dean needs me I'm not gonna fail him not gonna fail… _

Sam jerked awake, his back arching, breath rattling in his chest as he gasped for air.

"Sam? What the hell?" Bobby grated. He arched his back, tried to bull his way out of the death grip Sam had him in, around his chest and shoulders. "Let go of me…."

Sam drew back, wobbling. The words weren't making sense. Nothing did. He'd been surrounded by black smoke, then he was back in the fruit cellar, and now the church again. One moment Dean was in his arms, hurt and bloodied, the net minute Bobby was there.

Bobby pulled away from Sam, leaned heavily against the wall.

"What…what the hell happened?" the older hunter gasped.

Sam sat down heavily onto the church pew. There was a loud buzzing sound between his ears, and he couldn't think of a thing to say.

_**000000**_

The Ilimu demon inside the police dog crouched in the bushes next to the church and stared. It had cooperated with Azazel all right, really didn't have that much of a choice. It was far from home, cut off from the others, who were roasting in hellfire by now. It was a lower level demon, and it had been content all this time to settle into the dog's body and watch the others get picked off.

That's how you get to be an old demon.

It watched the lightning come down on top of Azazel and the trickster, and it wasn't that surprised when Azazel made the cop vomit him out. That left the trickster avatar, and he stood there raging, shrouded in flame, with his back to the demon in the dog in the bushes. Waves of force swept out from the boy in concentric circles, rattled the bushes and the teeth and bones in the dog's body. A fine mist of pulverized concrete and human ash floated through the air, and the flame surrounding the trickster just as suddenly winked out.

If the Ilimu had been a little bolder, it could have leaped out, jumped the boy, and torn his throat out. There was a time when it would have done just that.

But then, that was the trick, wasn't it? This time the prey _was_ a damned trickster, after all, one of the oldest on record, and the demon didn't know if Coyote really was weak, or faking weakness just to lure it out.

And it didn't want to get killed finding out.

The demon inside the dog crouched down in the bushes, barely breathing. The trickster swayed on his feet and fell to his hands and knees, and oddly enough, that decided it for the demon.

It had heard a lot about tricksters in its long life, heard stories about them from older Ilimu. The general consensus was that you avoided them when you could. The younger ones didn't believe that, of course, which was why they went after this one, and his demon spawn of a younger brother.

This was way too easy, too tempting a target.

No way in hell was it going out there.

The Ilimu backed up further, edged out onto the church parking lot, and took off running in the opposite direction.

_**00000**_

Most of them were dead now, but they were still inside his head, kept alive by that wild thunderstorm of electrical energy in his brain, right behind his eyes. It was the price he had to pay for pulling that head trick.

That was the thing about magic, whether it was white or dark. You had to pay the price.

There was _always _a price.

…_Daddy always hits me with his fist… _

…_the yellow eyed man always liked me best…_

…_they both hate me, I know they do…_

…_liked me best and first. Even when he touched me that way…_

…_can't stand the bitch, shoulda used that knife I stole that time, stabbed her dead right then and there…_

Dean knelt there on his hands and knees on the broken and cracked sidewalk. His muscles quivered, he trembled and shook as aftershocks surged and snapped throughout his body and his mind. The electrical surges inside him made the yellow in his eyes crackle and arc. The living and the dead and the Demon were having their say inside his head, and he couldn't do a damned thing about it until they faded away.

_You're my brother. You really think I'd ditch you like this?_

"You did before,"Dean snarled under his breath. He wanted to lash out, wanted to hurt Sam the way he was hurting right now, but there was no one there. He bit back the scream that tried to rise up out of his throat, as broken bones and torn muscles knit themselves back together. Pain was part of the price, and he was paying dearly for it now.

_Never will get that promotion unless I do something big in the next couple'a years. I mean, workin' canine is nice and all, but you think I wanna be stuck wearin' a uniform for the rest of my life?_

…_it's not enough, John. You still have to sweeten the pot…_

Dean needed something, _someone_ to focus on. He hated being weak, out of control.

…_one more trump card to play. John's on his way up…_

_You're…you're not my son, _John rumbled._ You're not Dean._

"…Dad…" Dean breathed hoarsely. He crouched there, his head slightly tilted to one side. His eyes were yellow and vacant, focused on some distant memory only he could see and hear.

_Bobby, my Dad asked you to kill me if I went dark, didn't he?_

_Bobby nodded._

_Did he…did he know about Coyote?_

_At the time, I don't think so._

_But he must've noticed somethin' was wrong with me…_

Dean snorted to himself, bared his teeth. _Wrong?_ What was this _wrong_ shit? There was nothing _wrong_ with him. _Nothing_.

_I made a promise to your Dad, Dean. _Bobby said solemnly._ I keep my promises._

_You're some unnatural, ungodly fugly, the same as that yellow-eyed bastard that killed my wife. Our lives were destroyed because of a thing like you. You're not Dean. You're __not__ my son. We hunt down and kill evil things like you…_

Bastard left that damn talisman out on the table. Knew he'd come over and pick it up. Trapped him with it, froze him in place with it, put more containment amulets on him and tied him to a chair…

Dean crouched there, growling deep in his throat. His lips curled up into a snarl.

His hearts beat out of sync with each other. Rage made him tremble almost uncontrollably, and he regretted not killing John Winchester at the kiva when he'd had the chance, regretted not reaching into his father's chest and pulling out the man's still-beating heart with eager, clawed fingers.

Dad knew what he really was, all those years.

Dad told Bobby to kill him, and Bobby tried.

Dad was _family_, he was _blood_, and he'd tried to _trap_ him, tried to_ hurt_ him.

Dad would be on the surface soon, and it was time to give some of that hurt and pain back.

Dean's moods swung back and forth wildly. He curled up on his side in a fetal position and sobbed uncontrollably. He felt like laughing hysterically. The next moment he wanted to sit back on his heels and bay at the moon. The urge to kill rose up inside him so strongly he actually hurt inside. He wanted to hurt himself.

He wanted to kill someone. A_nyone_.

_**000000**_

Sam was having a hard enough time looking him in the eye, and that was all the confirmation Bobby needed.

_You'd be a lousy ass poker player, kid_, Bobby thought ruefully. He was pretty certain that something had happened, and that something probably involved Dean. Bobby couldn't remember how he'd ended up on the floor in Sam's arms. It was obvious, though, that Sam had been protecting him from Dean. Again.

Bobby flinched slightly as thunder rolled overhead, shaking the church to its foundations. Whatever was going on outside was probably nothing good. As he regained consciousness Bobby could have sworn he heard Dean's voice, inhumanly loud and rageful, coming from outside. Staying there inside the church until Dean came back inside suddenly seemed like the worst idea in the history of bad ideas. Bobby shouldered his duffel as he shifted his sawed off shotgun to his right hand.

"Sam, we gotta go. Right now."

He put a hand on Sam's shoulder, and Sam looked at him strangely. Kinda startled, and Bobby could have sworn he saw anger and panic in Sam's hazel eyes, but only for a second.

"You go." Sam shook his head slowly, He seemed dazed. He took one shaky breath and his hands shook slightly as he leaned forward and ran his fingers through his hair. " 'M not leaving Dean."

_Damn it,_ Bobby cursed silently to himself. _And I'm not gonna leave you alone with that maniac. I can't._

"Hi, Bobby," Dean purred. "How's your head?"

Bobby turned around and Dean was right _there_, standing right behind him.

Bobby froze. Condie snarled, gathered herself to spring at Dean, and Dean stopped her in her tracks with a look. Dean stepped close and put one hand on Bobby's throat casually. The look on the kid's face was unreadable.

_What's the matter, old man? Coyote got your tongue? _Dean was inside his head again, his thought voice a low amused growl. _You won't believe me, and I don't have time to explain. When the time comes, you'll do what I say, when I say it._

And all Bobby could do was nod silently.

_Good. _Bobby couldn't hate Dean any more than he hated him now.

Sam raised his head slowly. "Dean, what…what are you doing?"

"Nothing." Dean shrugged. "Just having a little talk with Bobby about his health and future. He's _your_ pet, Sammy." Sam looked puzzled. "That's the only reason ol' Bob's still here."

_ol' Bob? _Bobby thought to himself._ You bastard._

Bobby felt a sharp spike of pain hit him right between the eyes, at the same time his gut clenched so painfully he doubled over. He couldn't hear anything but his own ragged breathing; his heart thundered inside his chest, too fast, too quick.

Dean's eyes narrowed. "What the hell did you think you were doin' back there, Sam? You gonna leave me again? Is that it?"

The inside of the church blurred, went out of focus, and at first Bobby thought that was just vertigo or dizziness, thought it was just him, but then through the haze he saw his dog drop to her belly, whimpering. This was worse than the time he'd gotten shit-faced drunk and then decided to go take a ride on a carnival whirly-gig ride. He was young and stupid then, fresh out of the military. The sensation was the same; Bobby felt like leaning over and puking his guts out on the floor.

Sam groaned. He leaned heavily against the church pew, looking even paler than he had before, and through it all Dean stood there unaffected, and that wild golden eyed gaze of his promised blood and pain and fear.

"You pull a stupid stunt like that ever again and I will kick your ass."

Bobby willed himself to keep on breathing, despite the pressure wedging him up against the wall.

"Dean," Sam gasped. "What…what the hell are you doing?"

Everything was a fuzzy, soft smear of color and texture as the room revolved slowly around them, like someone had gone apeshit crazy with a Photoshop program that could affect reality instead. The room tilted and swung around them in a slow queasy turn that made Bobby feel like his feet and solid ground had dropped out from underneath him.

Dean shrugged. "We need to swing by Wal-Mart and pick up a few things I need for the spellwork."

"Things? What_…_what_ things_?"

The shotgun slipped from Bobby's right hand and his knees buckled. And just when he thought he couldn't take any more, the pain went away, and so did the church.

Bobby's eyes widened as his knees went out from underneath him. He put his hands out to steady himself and reeled back in shock as he felt cloth underneath his fingers, saw chrome metal clothing racks.

Bobby had seen this place before, when he did recon outside, but he didn't go in. He could see what was inside the place through the windows. Bodies. There were bodies lying everywhere.

Like now. They were inside that damned Wal-Mart store, the one over the hellmouth.

Bobby glanced down at the floor and what he saw made him startle. His back thumped up against the wall. _Oh shit_, he thought to himself. _How much worse is this gonna get?_

_You ain't seen nothin' yet. _

Dean.

_Get out of my head, you bastard, _Bobby snarled, and Dean laughed.

Dean smirked at the shocked expression on Bobby's face. "Oh. Sorry," he said out loud. "Maybe I should've given you some warning, huh, Bobby?"

Sam swayed a little on his feet. He looked around the room, a dazed expression on his face, as if what he'd just gone through hadn't really sunk in, not yet. "Thought you wouldn't have been caught dead watching the Wizard of Oz," Sam said dully.

"It was the porn version," Dean sounded smug. "The wicked witch in_ that_ one was _hot_. Not like that old broad in that _other_ movie, which I wouldn't be caught dead watchin', by the way."

"If…if you could transport us _this_ far, why couldn't you get us home all the way on your own?"

Dean shrugged. "Need a little extra boost to leave this place. That's all, Sam. We don't have any ruby slippers. Gonna have to make do." He looked around the room at the people lying around, and the smirk on the kid's face made Bobby's skin crawl.

Condie came slinking over to stand next to Bobby, her ears laid back against that big black skull of hers. The dog whimpered, then growled.

And something growled back at her.

Dean smiled then, and the smile actually reached his eyes.

_Cere, _a female voice whispered._ You came back…_

There were two of them. One was brunette, the other one a red-head. They looked like a cross between a big cat and a human woman, and they slunk around Dean, rubbing up against his legs, arching their backs, purring. Dean looked relaxed and happy, genuinely glad to see them.

Slymm's long tail swung back and forth, and she lowered her head as she stared at Sam and Bobby with hooded eyes.

Redd openly growled at Sam, at Bobby, and Condie, but she seemed especially focused on Sam.

Condie got between them and Bobby and stared her down, growling.

"Redd," Dean said warningly. She stopped growling but she didn't look up at him. "You kids are gonna play nice, or else." Dean looked over at Bobby and those yellow eyes flashed. "Don't start _anything_, there won't _be_ anything."

"Hmph." Redd sat down and stared at Bobby and Condie, and Slymm did the same.

Sam took a step forward, frowned, and then stared down at the floor. "What the hell --- "

The floor underneath their feet looked like thick glass, and there were…_things_ on the other side that bumped up insistently against the barrier. There were so many demons it looked like a thunderstorm was brewing underneath the floor, but thunderstorms didn't have eyes and faces.

They wanted out.

The demons in black boiling smoke form flowed along the other side, bumped up against the tried to find a way through. Several wraiths pushed their shoulders above the cloud line, pushed against the barrier. They looked like reverse negative people, gray bruised shadows where their faces should have been. They pushed against the floor with their hands.

They were focused on Dean. They stared at him, followed his every move. They begged and pleaded with their eyes at first, and when Dean didn't respond they dropped the pretense and cursed at him.

"Dean," Sam tried again. "This…this is that hellmouth…"

"Yeah, I know." Dean knelt and ran one hand slowly over the surface. On the other side a smoke demon paused and snapped uselessly at his fingers with a wide cavernous mouth.

Dean laughed. "Isn't this the freakiest damn thing you ever saw?" He ran his fingers over the glass floor, and some of the demons followed the motion of his fingers, like fish following a baited hook. "Ol' Yeller thinks I'm gonna open this up for him."

Sam frowned. "That's not why we're here?"

Dean scoffed. "Hell no. I'm not fattenin' frogs for snakes. He wants this opened, he can do it his damn self. We get what I need for the spell work, then we can go." He stood up, dusted his hands off on the legs of his blue jeans.

"What do we need?"

"Fresh blood. Purer the better." Dean squinted as he looked around at the people. "Don't see many virgins in this crowd." Dean's grin was sly, knowing. "You wanna do quality control on this one, Sammy?"

Sam wordlessly leaned down and removed his Kershaw knife from his left boot.

Dean looked down at the knife and quirked an eyebrow at his brother. "What'cha doing with _that_, Sam?"

"I wanna help." Sam said huskily.

"Dude," Dean said scornfully, "Do you even _know_ what you're doin'?"

"You can teach me."

Dean cocked his head to one side. "Oh, really? Huh." He stood there for a moment, as he considered this new attitude of Sam's. "What, no moral outrage at what I plan on doin'? No pissy face?"

Sam shrugged.

"I don't get an impassioned speech about remembering who and what I used to be?"

"Nope."

"You're not even gonna tell me that these people are innocent?"

Sam just stared at him. Dean smirked and clapped him on the shoulder. "That's my boy."

Dean glanced over at the corner wall, near customer service, and his face brightened. "Hey, there they are."

"There who---"

"Sam Winchester, meet Joe and Ruby McCandless." You wouldn't have realized Dean was planning murder from the warm friendly tone of his voice. He walked over to this couple, a young man and a woman. They sat slumped over against the wall. The man's arms were around the woman's waist and shoulders in a useless protective gesture.

The woman was obviously very pregnant.

"Ruby here's got a bun in the oven, as you can see," Dean looked down at them fondly. "The kid's name is Sam. What are the odds." He glanced back at Sam. "You behave yourself, Sammy, and I might let you do the honors."

"Okay. Now what?"

"I need to get topside on the roof and map out a few things. Stay here. I'll be back."

Dean faded out in a snap of yellow static.

Sam stood there staring at the floor. His grip tightened on the knife until his knuckles turned white. Dark things underneath the glass circled around his feet in slow lazy turns.

_Being in this damn place has finally caught up with him_, Bobby thought. That was it. Had to be.

"Sam," Bobby hissed. "What the hell are you doing?"

Sam couldn't answer.

_**000000**_

The center was just about there, directly over the hellmouth. Dean burned the sigil into the concrete with his mind, took great care on getting the details just right. Moments ago he didn't even _know_ how to do this. Didn't realize that he even _knew_ this particular invocation. It was like a door opening. Switches had been flipped. Circuits inside his head were humming away, completed, in time with the twin beats of his heart.

…_there's more inside that pretty head of yours than you even realize, Deano…_

He had to admit that demon son-of-a-bitch was _right_ about that. Bastard.

This whole friggin' mess would be over soon. One way or another.

Dean turned around and nearly walked into Sam. "Dude, what the hell are you ---"

Sam stepped so close there wasn't any space between them.

It didn't hurt, at first. You'd think it would, but it didn't. Dean felt something punch into his lower left side. His second heart was speared by the blade in Sam's fist. Dean's heart still tried to beat, tried to pump blood even as the steel sunk in even deeper, piercing all three chambers.

Dean was frozen, locked in place. He could only watch as Sam put one arm around his waist and pulled him even closer.

Sam leaned forward, kissed the shell of Dean's ear. "Like you said, Deano," Sam whispered. "If I want to open this thing up, I have to do it myself."

He twisted the knife, deep inside Dean's body, and Dean shuddered.

"One heart down, 'bro," Sam grinned wolfishly. His murky yellow eyes were full of good humor. "One to go."

_**00000**_

_**Next up:**_ Final round of the main event, and a Winchester family reunion.


	34. Chapter 34 Freak On a Leash

_**Then**_ Dean (Coyote) Winchester versus YED, first part of final round

_**Now: **_Final round action and a Winchester family reunion.

Disclaimer: Don't own 'em, just playing with 'em a little bit. Now that the professional writers are on strike, does this mean the boys are up for grabs? Nahh…

_**Dog Eat Dog**_

_**Chapter 34 – **__**Freak on a Leash**_

_**One**_

_Wake up…you gotta wake up…_

Two hundred twenty three people escaped Wal-Mart. They were interviewed later on by local authorities and an FBI team headed by Victor Hendrickson and Anita Dufresne, and they all claimed that they were given a wake up call by a young dude wearing a battered brown leather jacket. He came to each and every one of them, and he told them they had to leave the building right now.

Most of the survivors wisely omitted the parts about cat-women, wraiths, black smoke demons.

_Joe McCandless didn't know the dude from Adam. So much weird shit had happened tonight, he figured Brown Leather Jacket was some sort of heavenly messenger. Joe could see right through him. Literally. Joe didn't recognize the face, but he knew that deep smooth voice from before…_

_Nobody's dyin' tonight, not while I'm around… _

The physical descriptions were the same, across the board: young white male, six foot one, wide green eyes, short dark blond hair. The description clicked with Deputy Vicky Eames, and she put in a call to Anita Dufresne, one of her old college buddies. The deputy had heard about Dean Winchester's escape from Norwood Hospital a couple of days before.

_Ruby McCandless squinted hazily. He had the face of a fallen angel, gloriously beautiful, sheer perfection, broad shoulders, slim hips, and the way he held himself told her that this man would be lethal in an all-out fight. Ruby put her hands protectively over her stomach, and she could swear she saw pain and shadows in those wide green eyes._

_Didn't mean to put you through this…you or your baby. It didn't shock her that he spoke to her inside her head, without speaking aloud. I'm sorry._

_She just nodded. Inside her, little Sammy kicked and fussed, and the angel smiled a little. _

During the de-briefing by Hendricksen and Dufresne, all the survivors were shown a line-up of photos, six in all, including a photo of Dean Winchester.

No one knew his name, but _all_ of them picked Dean's photo.

Every last one of them.

_Trucker Dude, AKA Leland Thomas, sat huddled in a corner, eyes closed, when he felt someone in front of him. He opened his eyes and jerked back, tried to jam his body into and through the wall._

_The freak in that brown leather coat was back. _

_Leland was way too friggin' ornery to beg and plead for the kid not to hurt him any more, but his eyes widened as he stared at the guy. The freak was even freakier looking this time. He was a fuckin' ghost. Leland could see right through him, and he suddenly had no doubt that even while he was doin' this Casper the not-so friendly Ghost routine this green eyed freak could kick his ass. Again. _

_Those green eyes flashed yellow, and Leland flinched backwards. He felt his broken arm and nose heal. His busted ribs knit back into place._

_It was a trick. Had to be. _

_All around him people stirred groggily. They sat up, opened their eyes. They got up and headed for the door, slowly at first, then faster as adrenaline kicked in. It was an orderly evacuation. Nobody was pushing or shoving. There was very little fear or panic._

_You stay here, you're gonna die, the freak said inside Leland's head. Get out. Don't let the door hit you in the ass on the way out…_

_Leland might have been a bully, and a piss-poor excuse for a human being, but you didn't have to tell him twice. _

Only one person inside Wal-Mart at the time (aside from John and Sam Winchester) knew Dean's name. That was Bobby Singer, and Bobby wasn't talking.

He was long gone by the time the first responders showed up.

_**Two**_

Azazel stared into Dean's face, searching for a reaction. There wasn't much of one, and the Demon didn't like it. His face was calm, his eyes half-drowsy. Dean looked peaceful. Not enough begging. Not enough screaming.

And so far, no blood.

Azazel could feel Sam inside his own body. The kid put up one hell of a fight, but it was useless. The Demon had the upper hand, the element of surprise. Sam was weak, wide open, and Azazel had taken full advantage, slipped in and overwhelmed him.

notSam looked down at his brother, and the smile that stretched his lips was pure Azazel: wide, cheerful, merciless. It pushed the knife in deeper. Dean groaned. His second heart convulsed around the silver blade holding it in place. His eyelids blinked open wider, and a small trickle of blood ran down from the corner of his mouth.

Better. Much better.

"Hello, little dog, hello," notSam crooned.

Dean stared at him dully.

notSam leaned forward, put his lips to Dean's ear.

"…_ekelein lypos ert raterii wea…"_

The ancient words burned into his brain. Dean's eyes widened. His entire body trembled in small tic-like jerks.

"nuhh…no…nooo…" Dean moaned. He tried to push himself away, actually tried to push himself off the knife and Azazel smiled.

"…_ghos apous kloh tyun rtyea sharf tensia …"_

Dean's skin flushed, rosy red with fever. His back arched as the fever swept over him, from head to toe. Muscles clenched up painfully, then relaxed almost to the point of being boneless. Dean's breath hitched and caught in his throat. His eyes grew vacant, blank except for that flicker of yellow fire.

Dean stilled.

"_There now," _notSam said soothingly._ "That's better." _He ran his fingers down the side of Dean's face; Dean didn't even startle at the touch.

"_You're two steps behind me, Old Man. Again. It's a shame, really. I would have kept my side of the bargain, as long as you were useful to me, but you had to be so damned willful. So be it. You're my key. I need this opened, and you __**will**__ open it for me, won't you?"_

"…_yess…"_

_**Three**_

He could sense wide open spaces overhead this time as they faded in. John Winchester stood in the middle of his escort, and they circled around him in a tight formation at first. He didn't have a clear view of what was going on at the center of the roof, but he heard something, heard a voice that was all too familiar. It was faint, an echo, as if he were hearing it from a great distance...

_D-Dad?_

_Sammy?_

The bastards surrounding him stepped aside then, grinning. They laughed among themselves, and that _definitely_ wasn't a good thing.

Sam stood with his back to John, and even before the boy turned around to face him John knew that everything was _wrong wrong wrong_.

"And here's the guest of honor," notSam boomed cheerily.

Dean stood there with his head on notSam's shoulder. Dean was lost in his own little world as he stared blankly at something that no one else could see. notSam stroked Dean's shoulders, down his arm, exactly like one would touch a prized possession. A pet.

Both boys had yellow eyes, although Sam's were clearly recognizable as Azazel's: a murky poison yellow. The center of Dean's green eyes glowed a soft yellow, and the sight made John's insides clench up.

"How d'ya like your boys _now_, huh, Johnny? Sammy's mine, and Dean, well, he'll be dog food in a few and I don't even have a dog anymore."

No, this was too fucking much. It was one thing to have them screw over _him_. That was the price of the deal he'd made, but _this_…

"We had a deal," John said slowly, and the wraiths laughed. "You said you'd save Dean…"

Azazel grinned. "We did and I did, John-boy. I said I'd save Dean that one time. Never said I wouldn't come after the boy after that. Never said Sammy was off limits, either. You fucked yourself and your family but good, hunter. Anyway, you should be thanking me for taking care of Dean for you. He and his little wild dog are on _my_ leash now. Besides, didn't you ask that Singer fella to take care of the boy if he went dark?"

"What?"

notSam's brow darkened. "Don't play dumb, Papa. You're not very good at it. Coyote, remember? I'm all about family, John, you know that. Let me show you." notSam smiled and put his lips to Dean's ear.

"Dean?"

He didn't react at first.

"Dean?" Dean slowly looked up at notSam. Dean's eyes were too bright, and despite the light stubble on his face he seemed younger than his twenty eight years.

"Dean, Dad's here," notSam purred.

"Dad," Dean breathed softly. He frowned up, shook his head. He tried to push closer to notSam. "He…he…yelled at me…don't…wanna…talk to him…"

"Oh, don't be like that, Dean. Isn't there something you wanna _say_ to him? Isn't there something you want to _do_ to him?"

Dean's eyes were lost, confused. His head swung back in forth in the negative, short jerky motions, a child-like gesture, just like he did when he was four.

"Why not? He tried to trap you, Dean. Tried to hurt you."

"S-Sammy, no…"

"He doesn't understand you like I do. He never did. Never appreciated anything you did, 'bro. All the years you wasted on his private crusade, all the times you got injured, the blood, the pain. The times he'd ditch you. You'd wake up in the morning and he was gone. Not one word, no warning."

"…please…" Dean said hoarsely. "S-Sammy…"

"It's okay, Dean. It's okay to get mad at him. It's okay to want this." notSam pushed Dean forward. Dean took a few halting steps forward. The demons and the wraiths parted like the Red Sea did for Moses, and several of them pushed John from behind, pushed him closer to Dean.

John glanced down at the silver knife hilt sticking out of Dean's lower left side. He made eye contact with Dean, stared straight into the wild yellow eyes of his eldest son.

"Dad?" Dean whispered hoarsely. "Why?"

_Sam's John's favorite…_

"Why didn't you tell me?"

…_even when they fight, it's more attention than he's __**ever**__ shown you…_

"Why didn't you help me?"

"All the research I did," John began slowly, "…everything I found out…pointed to one thing. Always this one thing. If I tried to separate the two of you, if I tried to get rid of Coyote, you'd die, Dean. You'd die, and I couldn't let that happen. I love you, son. I'm so damned proud of you. Always have been." John shrugged. "I didn't say that to you enough before, and I'm sorry about that. I am."

Dean shook his head, his eyes wounded, distant. "How could…how could you make that deal with that damned thing…you didn't give a damn about the way I'd feel…"

"I never thought about that, Dean. I made that deal for you, son. If I had to do it all over again I'd do it again, with no hesitation. You can hate me for that." John shrugged. "It's all right."

Dean stepped closer; the glow in his eyes intensified. Dark yellow energy crackled and surged around his right hand.

John stood there, and he didn't try to back up or move away. "You can do whatever you want to me, Dean. Right here. Right now. Doesn't change the fact that I love you. I always have, and I always will."

"That's…that's not good enough." Dean shook his head. He flexed his fingers, stared at the energy he was casting slightly wide-eyed, as though he wasn't really sure _what_ he was going to do next. "Gonna do what I shoulda done a long time ago."

His body language changed in an instant. Before Dean moved stiffly, like a shy small boy in a room full of adults. Now his entire body relaxed. His movements became easier, more fluid. He looked up at John, and Dean's smile was bright, feral.

"Shoulda killed me when you had the chance, Papa."

John frowned. "Dean?"

Dean shook his head. "Not Dean," he growled roughly. "Not now."

Coyote leaned forward and looked John up and down. "You hunt and kill things like me, remember?" he said as he walked around John, as he looked him up and down, smirking. "Hunt down and kill. Not your son. Not Dean. Not anymore."

John didn't flinch as Coyote grabbed him by his throat. Yellow energy washed over John, put him down on his knees.

He was in agony. This was worse than anything he'd ever experienced down in the pit. The agony reached John's very core, and it was made worse by the idea that Dean was doing this to him. Dean was sick, and John couldn't do anything for him. Couldn't do anything for him, but this, maybe. If he ceased to exist then maybe the shock of what he'd done would bring Dean back, but John privately doubted it.

Dean stood there staring down at him, eyes narrowed slightly, head tilted to one side. John's heart hammered away in his chest. His lungs filled with yellow fire. Those were human reactions that he had, even in spirit form, and it seemed to amuse his tormentors when they would let him up gasping after submerging him into a pool of hellfire. Seemed to amuse them when they would tear him limb from limb and then put him back together again.

That was cake compared to this.

John could hear Sam, the real Sam, yelling faintly in the background, inside his head, pleading with Dean to stop.

Dean wouldn't. John felt a wrenching sensation at the core of his soul. He was being torn apart, ripped into pieces. The pain was huge, paralyzing. He couldn't even scream. The last thing John felt was the rough concrete underneath his knees, Dean's hand snug against the underside of his throat, and then everything went totally black.

John's spirit winked out in a blaze of yellow static.

Everyone froze up on the roof.

The smoke demons circled lazily overhead. The wraiths stared open-mouthed at Dean. He lifted his right hand, palm up, and stared at it dazedly, and they actually drew back from him in fear when he moved.

"I'll be damned," Azazel whispered aloud. It reached out with its mind, tried to sense John somewhere. Anywhere.

Nothing.

"I'll be _damned_…"

_**Four**_

Bobby felt a persistent tickle at the back of his skull and sighed ruefully.

He was _never_ gonna get used to this headspace crap.

_Bobby?_

Dean.

"Yeah?" Bobby said out loud. Several of the Wal-Mart employees stared at him strangely as they stumbled past him, out the door. Bobby rolled his eyes at them. _I'm the least of your worries tonight, folks._

Condie moved around Bobby like a border collie in a 'roid rage. She snapped and growled at the people, herded them out the door quickly and efficiently. She showed those sharp white teeth of hers and the message was clear: _Get moving, nothing to see here. Slow down and stop and I will bite you on the ass._

They moved through the outer lobby and onto the parking lot.

The two cat women had disappeared right after Sam had. Bobby supposed that was a good thing. A very good thing.

_Bobby? You ready?_

"Rounded up the last stragglers. We're on the parking lot now. Told 'em to head out, get as far away from the building as they can."

_I'm sending Dad your way._

"Dean, you're --what? Who? John?"

_He'll be right behind you. I'm sending Sammy out next. When you see Sam, grab him and run like hell. Don't know how long I'm gonna be able to hold these bastards off._

"Dean, wait a minute. You're sending _John_? Dean, your dad's ---"

Bobby caught movement behind him, just inside the corner of his eye. It was movement that shouldn't have been. They'd gotten everyone out. Everyone.

Condie wheeled around, growling, her hackles raised, ready to bite whoever this was. Bobby grabbed her by the collar and the big black dog whined deep in her throat.

Bobby raised the shotgun and took aim.

Bobby saw bloodstained denim clothing. A blood splattered olive green t-shirt. Salt and pepper beard. Wavy black hair streaked with grey. Dude had a few cuts and bruises on his face, a few scrapes on his body.

Bobby stared, open-mouthed.

John favored his right arm a little, cradled it against his body, but otherwise he looked pretty damned healthy for a dead man. He quirked an eyebrow at Bobby, nodded at the shotgun. "You gonna shoot me, Singer," John drawled, "or you just gonna just stand there gawkin'?"

"I'll be damned," Bobby whispered hoarsely.

John swayed on his feet. "I probably am."

The last time Bobby had seen those strong dark features they were set in death over a year ago.

Bobby had helped Sam and Dean set up the wooden stand for the funeral pyre. He watched in the shadows as Sam and Dean washed the body in holy water. Bobby helped them gather the salt and gasoline for the fire.

_I'll be damned, _Bobby thought._ Son of a bitch, I'll be damned!_

The shotgun wavered as Bobby lowered it back down again.

Despite himself Bobby stepped forward, put his shoulder underneath one arm and lifted him up onto his feet, helped him walk. Bobby could hear breath sounds, could feel John's heart beat, the warmth of his body.

"Christo," Bobby murmured, just loud enough to be heard.

"That's not what this is, you dumb son of a bitch," John Winchester muttered underneath his breath, and that was good enough for Bobby.

_**000000**_

_**Okay, I've been hanging around Dean and Coyote a little too much lately.**_

_**I've gotten tricky. **_

_**Next chapter Dean, Coyote, Sammy and Azazel have the stage all to themselves. **_


	35. Chapter 35 End Game

A/N – The POV in this chapter jumps all over the place. First up is Sam, then Dark!Dean, and I think you'll recognize everybody else.

Spoilers: In My Time of Dying, Shadow

Disclaimer: Don't own 'em. (You know I have to say that, don't you?)

_**Then: **_Final round action and a Winchester family reunion.

_**Now:**_ The countdown to the end begins…

_**Dog Eat Dog**_

_**Chapter 35 – End Game**_

_**Ten**_

His face was wet, his throat raw from yelling, and his fists were bloody where he'd kept pounding against that invisible wall. Sam was on his hands and knees and he couldn't even remember how he got there. Couldn't remember anything except the sight of Dean, with his hand on Dad's throat. Sam's whole body shook and he rested his forehead against what seemed to be smooth slick glass.

"_Shoulda killed me when you had the chance, Papa…You hunt and kill things like me, remember? Hunt down and kill…"_

Sam closed his eyes and he saw it over and over again, the way Dad's spirit broke apart, dissolved into nothing…

And Dean just stood there, wild and yellow-eyed…

"_Not your son. Not Dean. Not anymore."_

…_he killed him…oh God, Dean killed Dad…_

**Nine**

It was two against one, always had been, and it wasn't fair, but then again life never had been fair. He was as much a part of Dean Winchester as that _other_ one, that damn yellow-eyed dog, but Dean pushed _him_ away every chance he got.

It wasn't his fault he was every dark impulse and thought Dean had ever had in his entire life. He'd been the _second_ one to get walled up, _after _that damned mutt, of course (_second-best, always second best, after Sammy, after Coyote, after everyone else--_).

Ever since the sky over Vashon turned maroon red, dark and twisted, he'd known this was the place that would let him run free. He'd actually hoped that he was out for good, but Dean and that wild dog of his ganged up on him, kept him isolated in the dark, which was why they were able to get up on the roof and burn that sigil into the concrete there. If he had realized what it was, what it could do, he never would have allowed it.

He might have warned that other yellow-eyed eyed bastard, but then again, maybe not, because he couldn't stand _him_, either.

Having his hand around Dad's throat was _sweet_.

He couldn't understand why the others stopped him.

Stupid bastards.

Hadn't they felt the pain too, each and every time Dean gave his all during hunts, went above and beyond the call of duty each and every fucking time, only to have the old man take _that_ for granted, and ask for even more?

Had they forgotten that twinge of self-hatred, that hollow empty feeling Dean felt every time Dad ditched him, every time Dean woke up in the morning and John was _gone_, without so much as a word, or a warning?

Dean followed orders like a good little soldier, and where did it get him? Blood and pain, scars and broken bones, and damned if the idiot didn't man up and go right back and ask for even _more_ punishment, instead of dishing some out himself.

_I love you, son._

_You can do whatever you want to me, Dean. Right here. Right now. Doesn't change the fact that I love you. I always have, and I always will._

Yeah, _right_. Figures the son of a bitch would say _that_, knowing _his_ ass was on the line.

Figures those other two idiots would fall for that line of crap.

He was on the downswing. He was the last, and the least. The second heart was as stubborn as he was. It was dying, but it beat weakly and fluttered around the silver blade it was impaled on.

_**Eight **_

Azazel watched Dean through Sam's narrowed eyes.

It could only depend on the evidence of its own senses, and those senses told him that John Winchester had just been annihilated, wiped clean from existence.

Azazel didn't trust the evidence.

A large part of the danger of going up against a Trickster was the fact that you never knew for certain whether the countermeasures you used against the critter actually worked or not, and a mistake was almost always fatal.

The silver knife and the spellwork was intended to daze and confuse Dean long enough to make him highly susceptible to suggestion. First Azazel would suggest that Dean open the hellmouth. After that Azazel would quietly suggest that Dean kill himself.

Permanently.

Having a matched set of brothers would have been ideal, but the Demon considered its flexibility to be a valuable trait. Dean was proving himself to be too much trouble. Azazel was quite willing to cut its losses and concentrate on Sam, if need be.

If the spellwork was still in effect, Dean would come when he was called.

Dean stood there, swaying a little on his feet, his back to notSam. He stared at the spot where John had been. The wraiths backed up, arranged themselves in a wide circle around the two brothers. The demons circled overhead warily.

"Dean, it's okay. Come here." Dean turned, glanced quickly at notSam's outstretched hand and looked away. His shoulders slumped. Despite that telltale golden glow in his eyes he looked too young, his body language awkward, like a small boy who had been caught in the act doing something bad.

"It's all right. I'm not mad." notSam's smile even reached his hazel eyes and shaggy hair. His voice dripped honey. It was like watching someone trying to sucker a puppy in with false kind words while they hid the baseball bat they were going to pound the little furball with behind their back.

There was a moment when Azazel actually thought Dean was going to meekly duck his head and shamble over to stand right next to him.

That moment didn't last long.

Dean squared those broad shoulders of his, and when he turned around he had that damned smirk on his face. Despite himself, notSam's eyes widened in shock when he saw the second silver blade in Dean's hand.

"Hey, Ozzie," Dean drawled with a wink. "Lose something?"

_**Seven**_

…_not gonna hide what I am anymore, Sammy. Not gonna hide anymore, not from you, not from anyone…_

All Sam could hear inside his head was that low throaty growl Dean's voice had become. It was dark and inhuman.

It _wasn't _Dean. Not anymore.

What he...what_ it_ had done to John proved_ that_, once and for all.

_I'm going to have to end this, _Sam thought dully._ He won't stop. He can't. _

Sam felt a calmness descend over his mind, his body. He'd reached a decision, one he couldn't ever take back if he followed through with it.

_It's not Dean. Dean's dead and gone. I have to…I have to take care of him… _

Sam was more like John than he ever cared to admit.

It was like a door opening inside his head.

Sam reached out with his mind for the Colt…

_**Six**_

Bobby found a blue '68 Pontiac GTO out on the parking lot, and he figured that it was a sign from above, or wherever. Maybe the patron saint of hunters was cutting them a break after all. Good luck was in short supply in this godforsaken place, but maybe things were on the upswing.

The Goat was a brute with a 350 V8 engine and a full tank of gas. The keys were in the ignition, which might have been further proof that their luck was turning for the better. The only bad part about it was the fact that whoever owned the car was probably dead. No one stepped up to claim it, no one but Bobby.

It crouched there, covered with a thin film of road grime, and Bobby actually thought it was the most beautiful sight he'd seen lately. The rest of the survivors had gotten into cars, trucks and buses out there on the parking lot and the last busload had just pulled off. When the shit well and truly hit the fan Bobby wanted to be behind the wheel of something that could haul ass, quick, fast and in a hurry.

He had the hood up and was checking the engine out while John leaned against the side of the car and watched as Bobby worked.

Bobby could tell John wanted to go back inside the building. It was understandable, but that wasn't what Dean wanted, and right now Bobby was content to follow Dean's lead. Being dead for over a year hadn't stopped John from being the same stubborn fool he'd been before. John was as weak as a newborn kitten, which was the only reason Bobby had been able to half-carry him away from the building. As soon as he felt better, John was going to make a move on him.

Bobby expected it.

Which was why Bobby held the shotgun on the other side of his body, away from John, and Condie kept an eye on John.

He'd go only so far with Bobby. John wasn't going to leave his boys behind, no matter how bad he felt, and they both knew it.

"So, what's the play?" John rumbled. He stared at the big black German shepherd mix and she stared right back at him.

"We wait for a signal from Dean. Sam comes out, we get the hell out of here." Bobby angled his body so that he could keep an eye on John.

"What about Dean?"

Bobby stared at the engine under the hood. _Yeah, what about him? _The feeling had nagged at him all along, but he couldn't say it out loud, that if he ever saw Dean Winchester again, alive and well, it would be a first class miracle. Ever since John traded his life for his, Dean was fixated on the idea that he was damaged goods, and he wasn't worth that kind of sacrifice. It was a twisted desire for redemption, a death wish and a world class martyr complex all rolled into one. It was the damndest thing Bobby had ever seen.

But, hell, you gonna tell the boy's daddy _that_? Bobby shrugged. "Dean'll be with Sam," was all he could say. For all he knew that was true, at least he hoped it would be.

John didn't ask anything about Coyote and Dean, and Bobby wasn't going to volunteer any information. That could come later. The Winchesters could get together and talk things over, but Bobby privately doubted it. Sam was the only one who'd push for a so-called chick flick moment. John and Dean? No way in hell.

Bobby straightened and slammed the hood shut. The fact that he was talking to John again, alive and in the flesh after all these months, suddenly struck Bobby as being funny.

Funny-haha _and_ funny peculiar. He chuckled a little.

John swayed on his feet as he held his arm even closer to his side. His skin was pale underneath that heavy stubble. He was in some pain, Bobby could see that, but naturally he wouldn't admit it. Macho idjit.

John bristled. "What's so damned funny?"

Bobby shook his head. "Among the Navajo people Coyote's known as the First Artist, or First Builder. He creates mankind when he kicks around a ball of mud." Bobby was enjoying this way too much. "And sometimes it's a ball of shit."

"That was so funny I forgot to laugh," John groused.

Bobby managed to keep a straight face. "Shouldn't even bother you, John."

"I guess not." John stared down at the pavement. "Thanks."

Bobby quirked an eyebrow at him. "Thanks for _what_?"

"For keeping an eye on my boys."

"No problem. Somehow you managed to raise 'em right. Both of 'em. After this is over we'll all head back to my place. I won't even try to shoot you this time."

John laughed, but Bobby didn't hear it. Something was inside his head again, a faint, sad whisper, barely heard.

_Bobby, I need to take this back…_

Bobby startled as the Colt vanished from underneath his back waistband.

John caught the movement; his eyes narrowed. "What?"

"That wasn't…that wasn't Dean," Bobby said slowly. He reached behind him, but even as he did he knew the damned gun was _gone_, taken away, and that suddenly made Bobby feel uneasy…

**Five**

He didn't hurt anymore.

Anywhere.

Dean almost laughed out loud, but he kept his poker face on. Inside, though, he felt something loosen inside his chest. That tension and soreness in his back and shoulders melted away. The ache in his soul…God, he'd felt so _hollow _all those months after Dad died. He'd felt lost, off balance, out of control.

He'd sensed a wrongness about himself, and even when Sam asked him how he was feeling, Dean still couldn't find the words to describe his emotions. Dean hated the sorrowful look on Sam's face when he'd told him that "what's dead should stay dead", but it was the truth. He couldn't deny it. But now…

_Dad died because of me. Only fair that I be the one to bring him back. What's the sense of bein' able to do all these things, if I can't help my family?_

All the pain he'd experienced in this place was worth it. All that information locked deep inside his head…his life experiences as Coyote, the spellwork, all of that arcane knowledge, all of it came flooding back into his consciousness. It didn't seem strange or alien, like it might have seemed at one time. It didn't overwhelm him, like it might have in the past.

And when he stared into his father's sad calm eyes, heard that deep velvet rumble of a voice once again, when he stared at that face that he would have given his very soul to see one more time, Dean knew exactly what he had to do.

Dad was back, alive and breathing, and even with Hendricksen on Sam's trail, it would be all right, it would all be okay.

It was only fitting that he wouldn't be around Sam or John after this. He'd be constantly reminded that he was no different from the things they hunted.

After this mess was all over, after he and Bobby got Sam and John to a safe place, there was the deal Dean had made with Coyote. The Old Man had kept his promise, for the most part, and helped keep Sam safe, and Dean fully intended to keep his end of the bargain. He'd let Coyote take his body once John and Sam were safe. He'd gladly go behind the wall like he promised. He wouldn't fight. He'd be true to his word.

The knife in his lower side pinched a little, but he barely noticed it. Pain was the price, especially for someone like him. Azazel made him two-hearted. Azazel had to be the one to take it off. Even darkness has rules. He couldn't heal himself. Not in this place.

So while Dean was inside the Demon's head, while Azazel was inside the cop's body, killing Maureen, Dean had suggested the spellwork with the knife, had suggested using the silver knife to spear the second heart.

And the dumb yellow-eyed jack-ass fell for it.

Dean held the second silver knife he'd taken off notSam and he smirked a little as yellow heat shimmer rose up around his right hand. The knife liquefied into a small pool cupped in the palm of Dean's hand. The wraiths backed up; so did the demons. They all formed up around Sam, the wraiths on the ground, the demons circling overhead like eels. They were afraid of Dean.

Damn well better be.

He felt good. Hadn't felt this damned good in years. No more hurt, no more pain. That ache deep inside his soul was gone. He felt like celebrating, and maybe that was something he could do later on, in what litte time he had left. Not now.

Now he had some evil sonsabitches to kill.

_**Four**_

Sam recalled the first Marine speech John had ever given him. It was one of many Dean took to heart. It was the speech Sam hated with a passion:

"There are things out here that can slip into us. Because we hunt them, they might decide to hunt us. We have to do whatever is necessary to protect one another. And if that's not enough, we have to take care of each other, and do the hardest thing we've ever done. Sometimes death can be a kindness."

Sam sat there with the Colt in his hand. He was dimly aware that the Demon was in control of his body.

For now.

He was also aware of the fact that he was somehow able to shield the Colt from the bastard.

Something was happening on the outside. Sam could feel it.

He couldn't let what was left of Dean be used by Azazel. He couldn't. He sat there, and he remembered his brother, remembered all the years Dean took care of him. He remembered Dean reading to him, helping him with his homework. Dean sitting there with him when Sam was nine and scared of the dark, scared of what was lurking in the closet. Dean taking care of Sam while John was away, making sure Sam was fed and cared for. Dean putting himself in harm's way on hunts, shielding Sam from harm, Dean bleeding for him, hurting for him, and finally, killing to protect him.

Dean deserved to rest in peace. Sam would see to it.

Azazel was bound to make a mistake, just like he had with Dean, and one mistake was all that Sam would need.

_**Three**_

notSam cocked his head to one side. "You're a clever little mutt, you know that?"

Dean shrugged carelessly. "It's a gift."

Azazel couldn't help but answer Dean's smirk with a slightly lop-sided grin of its own. It frowned as it sensed something else, and it pulled up Sam's shirt and jacket to exposure his bare skin. There was a mark on Sam's skin there, right underneath the jacket pocket where the knife had been. It wasn't a burn. It looked more like a thumbprint. Dean's thumbprint.

"_Dad," Dean breathed softly. He frowned up, shook his head. __**He tried to push closer to notSam.**__ "He…he…yelled at me…don't…wanna…talk to him…"_

"What the hell _is_ this?" notSam poked at the mark with one finger. He stared at it. Azazel gave an experimental push against the confines of Sam's body. It couldn't get out.

"A binding lock? Now, why would you want me to stay inside Sam's body?"

"You're always running off. You never call, you never write. We don't get to spend much quality time together."

"Insolent bastard. I still have Sam. He's mine, always will be."

"Like hell, bitch." Dean glanced at the bare concrete underneath notSam's feet. Azazel stood on top of the sigil, at the center of a circle seven feet wide. Beyond that was a thin layer of sand colored gravel that covered the rest of the rooftop.

Azazel looked down and that grin of his got even wider. It didn't recognize any of the lettering. or symbols. It was a series of four circles within four triangles, arranged around a fifth circle in the middle, like a cross. The lettering in and around those symbols looked like Arabic, but with long sweeping slashes through some of the letters. There were too many blank spaces. It didn't look like any containment sigil it had ever seen before, and the Demon laughed.

"You didn't finish it." notSam's brow furrowed. He bent over to take a closer look. "What are you playing at, Dean?"

Dean didn't answer. His shoulders tightened as he heard gravel crunch behind him. Something moved just inside the corner of his vision.

Redd and Slymm sat on their haunches behind him, side by side, on his right. They stared at Dean intently.

"He's leaving us," Slymm whispered. "Leaving us _again_."

Dean turned around long enough to glance at them. Despite their fearsome appearance they looked like two sad little abandoned kittens sitting dejected by the roadside. Dean could relate.

_Hush, chica, _Coyote thought at them warmly._ I'm not going anywhere._

"You're out-numbered." Azazel murmured. "Even your little pets have turned against you."

"Pets?" Redd snarled. She stalked forward on all fours, took up position on Dean's right side. After a moment's hesitation Slymm walked over and sat down on his left.

Azazel laughed. "Still doesn't matter. Nothing you do will make any difference. I still have your brother." notSam took a step forward and stopped short as he ran into an invisible wall. "Cute trick," he snarled.

"You like that trick?" Dean said mildly. He threw the handful of liquid silver onto the loose gravel on the ground between them. "Here's another one."

_**Two**_

The wraiths shuffled around nervously as the gravel underneath their feet flared with bright white light. They died first, folding in upon themselves. The light grew stronger and erased all traces of them.

Azazel shielded notSam's eyes with his hand, stepped back into the center of the sigil. It heard their dying screams inside its mind.

He was the only one unaffected, and it knew why. He was next.

Dean was saving him for last.

Above him the smoke demons tried to leave the circle. They couldn't. They were speared by the light, locked into place. Flashes of flame and bright light erupted inside them, and they dissolved into dead grey smoke, curling in the air.

…_he won't harm his brother…he won't, not if I go deep inside, use Sam's flesh as a shield, and let Sammy out…_

_**One**_

Sam squinted, raised his hand before his eyes. The light was blinding, but he could see Dean's outline. Sam could see his brother standing easily several feet away, head cocked slightly to one side, watching intently. Dean's eyes glimmered with a faint yellow light.

Those two cat things sat calmly, patiently.

Sam frowned to himself, shook his head. It wasn't Dean anymore. It wasn't. Killing Dad proved it. If he kept thinking of that...thing… as Dean, he'd never be able to do this.

Only Dean's physical body remained. His spirit, his soul, was long gone, Sam was sure of it, and it was up to him to give his big brother the rest that he deserved.

Sam tightened his grip on the smooth handle of the Colt. As soon as the light died out…

_**Zero**_

The light faded out, and Dean moved forward. He couldn't give Azazel any breathing space, couldn't give it time to damage Sam as it tried to fight back.

Dean stared into those hazel eyes, and what he saw there made him stop short.

He saw his death in those eyes.

He saw Sam.

_Sam was out. Sam was back…_

Sam smiled weakly, sadly. "I'm sorry, Dean. I'm so sorry---"

Sam raised the Colt, aimed, and pulled the trigger.

_**000000**_

_Let me know what you think. And, no, this is **not** a trick. Dean's been shot with the Colt._


	36. Chapter 36 Big Bang Theory

A/N: Dang, I struck a nerve with the last chapter, didn't I? I am _**not**_ paying for anybody's medical bills or psychiatric counseling after this is over. Nope. I ain't responsible.!

Better late than never. More comments at the end of this thing.

Azazel's remark about "bruising this fine packaging" – yep, I stole that from "Born Under a Bad Sign."

Spoilers: Asylum, Devil's Trap

**Then:** Dean brings John back from the dead. Sam misunderstands, thinks Dean and

Coyote killed John, and he shoots Dean with the Colt.

**Now:** Dean's shot, and he's gotta deal with it. And all hell is breaking loose…

_**Dog Eat Dog**_

_**Chapter 36 – Big Bang Theory **_

_**One**_

…_heart shot wonder why he didn't go for the head… thinks I killed Dad…he thinks I killed… couldn't tell him the truth not then, not now never believe me…_

…_no time I got no time…_

Gunpowder flaring red and yellow white energy around the Colt…

… _grab it …uhnnh… burns hurts like a son of a bitch whatever's inside is full-on lethal…silver bullets notched with an X inside a circle…white glow around the notch… firing the gun ignited whatever's inside… it'll kill anything gone wiped out but it didn't kill Dad not a mortal wound Dad wasn't a fugly he was mortal… whatever's inside the bullet didn't find what it was looking for… if I can trick it somehow take the hit and survive … make the damn thing think 'm human, mortal neutral bleed and hurt like everyone else… shield it somehow _… _I got nothin' left…_

Something punched against his shoulder, hard. Dean felt himself being pulled backwards, a hard violent jerk that emptied all the breath out of his lungs.

…_didn't work_, Dean thought muzzily. …_damnit…it…it…didn't work…_He tasted blood in his mouth and through the growing darkness he could hear Coyote growling.

_Gettin' pretty sick and damn tired of your friggin' family and friends takin' potshots at us. Stay with me, you crazy sumbitch, stay with me. Damn it, boy, you're not leaving me with this mess…_

_**Two**_

_**Coyote Kiva**_

_**New Mexico**_

Bertha Two Dogs heard him before she ever even laid eyes on him. A loud snuffling sound, the faint padding of something big lumbering around the kiva, out of sight behind the upper stone wall.

She didn't flinch when the shadow fell over her, blocking out the sun and sky.

She glanced up. The bear stood perfectly balanced on his hind legs, staring at her with its head cocked slightly to one side, its forearms crossed in front of its chest. It looked like a black bear, but the size was all wrong. This one was too wide and too massive, the size of a grizzly, and grizzlies weren't native to New Mexico.

It quirked an eyebrow at her. _Well?_

She shrugged and finished laying down the last fistful of colored sand and crushed herbs on the floor of the kiva.

She knew a kachina when she saw one. Nothing much surprised or startled her anymore.

She straightened up, dusted her hands off on her jeans. It didn't pay to show _too_ much disrespect, especially to a being whose help you needed.

It also didn't pay to act _too_ needy.

Bright sunlight flared into a corona behind him and the bear shifted into a huge black man dressed in denim work clothes and boots. She could see a faint amber glow in his eyes through the darkness of the sunglasses he wore.

"I'm looking for Coyote," the black dude rumbled.

Bertha kept her poker face on, but she noticed with some amusement that he looked just like Michael Clarke Duncan, that huge black actor who was in that Tom Hanks' movie "The Green Mile".

"I haven't heard from the Old Man in years, and now he's called on us at least three times tonight," Bear rumbled darkly. "Didn't exactly part as friends the last time. I want to know what the hell is going on."

"He's not here yet," Bertha said simply, "but you can wait if you like." Bear nodded.

He stood there and watched as she leaned over and put down another fistful of herbs and sand.

Bertha figured that showing respect was all very well and good, but she had work to do.

_**Three**_

Sam lowered the Colt. His face was blank, but inside his heart felt like ice, brittle and shattered, bumping up against his ribcage. A part of him wanted to look away. He couldn't. He had to bear witness to his decision, fully claim his burden.

He'd aimed for Dean's heart. Once it struck Dean's heart, the killing energy would light up his heart, and then travel up to his brain. Bright light would come flooding out of Dean's eyes and mouth, lighting him up from the inside, making his skin transparent, showing his ribs and internal organs. Every muscle in Dean's body would seize up, completely, painfully, and then the light in Dean's eyes would go out forever, and he'd be at peace.

Sam waited. He didn't even blink.

None of that happened.

Sam stared, wide-eyed, as the darkness wearing Dean's skin touched the bloody hole in Dean's shoulder and laughed at the blood on his fingers.

_**Four**_

It started small, like most monsters do, as a smallcounter-clockwise movement of air two hundred feet over the Wal-Mart superstore.

No one bothered to look up. Even if they had, they wouldn't have seen it. Not at first.

The sky over the town was still subject to natural laws, even though the color of the sky was all wrong and there weren't any more birds. The wall cloud formed silently, slowly, gaining more mass, more rotation. That godawful maroon color concealed it perfectly.

It was a neat trick, one that hadn't been seen on earth in several hundred years, and absolutely no one noticed when the cloud began its descent…

_**Five**_

"Something's wrong." Bobby knew that he'd fucked up royally as soon as he said it out loud. Somehow the mental image of Dean being hit with a bullet from the Colt came to mind. Hunter's instinct, maybe. Or something that the youngest Winchester wanted Bobby to see, so that he could understand why what had happened, happened. That hadn't been Dean's voice inside his head. It was Sam.

John's face darkened. "What?" He pushed off the side of the GTO and swayed a little as he stood on his own two feet. He was still pale, still favoring that right arm of his, and Bobby knew That Look. That damn mulish look meant that shit was gonna get worse in the next few minutes. That look meant that John wasn't gonna get in the car quietly.

"I'm not leavin' my boys."

Hell, if the situation was reversed Bobby figured he'd probably do the same thing. He couldn't blame the man but yet and still they were out of their league.

But there was still too much of the hunter in either man for them to turn tail and run.

"Give me your shotgun," John growled. He flinched slightly as he flexed the fingers of his right hand. Condie got up, growling deep in her throat. She stared at Bobby for her cue. _Want me to bite 'em, or leave 'em be?_

"You gonna shoot me, Bobby? Go right ahead. I'm not leavin' my boys."

Bobby sighed. "Damn idjit. I'm not givin' you _my_ shotgun." He reached inside, pulled open his duffel and pulled out another sawed-off. "You think I'm goin' in there unarmed, you better think again."

John growled something under his breath as he took the shotgun out of Bobby's hand, broke it open and checked to see if the gun was fully loaded. _Jackass,_ Bobby thought to himself. _You really think I'd give you an empty gun at a time like this?_

_D-Dad?_

The sound was faint, a wavering echo that whispered at first.

_DAD?_

_Loud, too damn loud._ That one word spiked sharply in the space right between their eyes, made both men groan and flinch painfully. Condie whined and backed up, tried to get away from the sound. Somebody was playing around with the volume control and couldn't get the settings right.

John turned around. Dean stood there, swaying unsteadily on his feet. John stared, then frowned, shook his head. He was seeing things. This…this couldn't be right. They'd been on a job down in Baton Rouge together, cleaning out a nest of bogeys while Sam was safely back in Blue Earth with Pastor Jim. Damn things had tried sneaking up on them from behind, and Dean had been hit twice, one in the back, once in the shoulder, with poisoned darts while pushing John out of the way.

Three days. It took three days, and during that time John had cared for Dean while the poison on those darts burned through his system. The poison smelled like crushed lavender and sage but the effects had been anything but calm and peaceful.

Three days. At once point Dean became violent in his delirium, and John had to tie him down to the bed. Dean cursed and struggled against the ropes, all wild-eyed and confused, and he promised John he was going to kill him slow and painful if he didn't untie him right fucking_ now_.

Three days of pure hell, watching Dean drug-dazed and bewildered, swinging backwards and forwards between still as death and raging. Three days of wondering if he was gonna lose his son, now and forever, and the memory of it all came rushing back at the sight of Dean standing there, but it couldn't be, it couldn't be the Dean he was looking at right now, because Dean was twenty eight and the young boy who stood before him all pale and ghost-like was all of twelve years old.

_**Five**_

"Come on, Sammy," DarkDean drawled lazily. "You can do better than _this_." He poked at the bloody hole in his shoulder; Sam flinched, and he laughed. "You always were such a girl. Finally grew a pair, huh?"

"You…you're not my brother," Sam rasped hoarsely. "You're not Dean."

"Oh? I'm _not_? You think _so_, huh? Better think again. Every time he gave up something for you, every time he bled or got broken for you, I got a little stronger. You made me what I am today, Sammy."

Redd and Slymm growled deep in their throats as they slunk past, low to the ground, smooth as water, with murder in their eyes.

"You killed Dad." Sam moved back a little, the now empty Colt useless in his hand. "I saw what you did, you bastard ---" He thudded up against something unseen and solid at the edge of the sigil and couldn't move any further away.

Redd and Slymm stopped short at the circle's edge, growling, their fur bushed out, tails lashing angrily.

DarkDean stared intently. He walked around the circle, stared down at the lines burned into the concrete. Sam stood there watching him, warily, his broad shoulders tensed for the blows he knew were coming.

"Dude, you oughta see the _look_ on your face. You can't get out, can you, Sammy? You can't get out, but _they_ can't get in either." He nodded towards Redd and Slymm. Redd growled at him and Slymm crouched there beside her sister, pure murder in her eyes.

"Bet you think that saves your sorry ass, don't ya?" DarkDean laughed and shook his head…and stepped inside the circle. His left hand shot out, moved so fast it was almost a blur, and his fingers clamped around Sam's windpipe and brought him slowly to his knees. A little telekinetic pressure around Sam's wrist opened his fingers and the Colt clattered harmlessly to the ground.

DarkDean smiled. "Better think again, _bro'_."

_**Six**_

He hurt.

He hurt all over, 'specially his right shoulder and his lower left side. Something sharp inside him in both places that pinched him when he breathed and he didn't know why. His head hurt too, felt too warm and his eyes felt funny, all watery and he couldn't stop blinking. It was hard to think but he remembered that he was supposed to keep on feeling this way or somethin' bad was gonna happen, but he couldn't remember exactly that somethin' bad was.

Dad was here, so it was gonna be all right. Dad would take care'a him, Dad would make everything better. Dean would have died before he'd said any of _that_ out loud, but it was all inside his head where no one could hear, so it was all right. It was safe._ He_ was safe.

He wouldn't say or do anything that would make Dad want to leave him.

Everything was too hot, too bright, and his skin felt stretched tight over his bones. It was hard to breathe and nothing looked right. Huh. Bobby was looking at him all peculiar. He didn't remember Bobby being on that hunt. Different dog, too. Not Rumsfeld.

Dad raised his hand, took a step towards him. "Dean…son---"

…_no no no, don't touch me…_

Dad's voice sounded all rough and weird sounding and wrong so wrong it hurt Dean's ears and he almost fell over himself as he jerked clumsily back out of reach.

Dean shivered all over, trembled like a damn girl, he couldn't help it, but it wasn't all bad. His head suddenly felt clearer after the shakes subsided. His fever was gone. He felt stronger. Bigger somehow. He looked down at his clothes, all ripped and torn, and cursed silently to himself. That poltergeist they'd been hunting was a vicious bastard; it threw everything at them inside the house including the kitchen sink. It was one time that Dean was glad Sam was away at Stanford.

Dad looked kinda banged up, too. Dean scowled when he saw the dried blood down the front of John's t-shirt. _Gonna kill your sorry 'geist ass,_ Dean thought to himself, _bring you back and then kill you all over again._

_Son of a bitch._

Sometimes being a hunter sucked. Big-time.

"Dean, what the hell is this?"

Dean swayed on his feet, clutching his limp right arm to his body. He could barely feel his fingers. Shoulder dislocated, probably. Gettin' bounced off the walls like a tennis ball will do that for ya.

"Dean?" Dad's voice was low, soft. Like he didn't want to scare Dean or something. Dean couldn't understand why Dad was doing that. He'd show him. He was a man now, not some snot-nosed kid. Dean straightened up. No weakness. No way, no how.

"Dean? What's going on, son?"

"…_have to do this…" _Dean heard himself say. He couldn't feel his mouth move, but the voice sounded familiar. He was hearing things, but it wasn't enough to make him all concerned about it. It was_ his_ voice, wasn't it? There was a weird undertone to it, low growling echo that vibrated through the air, but it sounded like him. He frowned at the memory of Sam pointing something at him. Bright silver, pain in his shoulder…

"_I don't…I don't know how long I can trick it…"_

He took a deep breath that made his chest hitch. Tired. Damn, he was so tired. Something warm like fever curled and stretched just beneath the surface of his skin. He wanted to lay down, curl up and go to sleep, but he couldn't. He had to keep doing this.

"_Dad, stay here. Stay outside. I'll bring Sam out. You have to be ready. You have to be ready to shag ass when I tell you to. Please, Dad…"_

"All right, Dean," John nodded. "We will. What about you?"

Dean looked John directly in the eyes._ "I'll be okay. I'll be fine." _The outline of the cars and trucks behind the boy became clearer, more visible, and as John watched Dean faded completely away.

Bobby didn't say anything. He knew a lie when he heard it, and by the brief flicker of pain and grief in John's eyes he knew that John did too…

_**Seven**_

A flash of light in the sky above made DarkDean look up.

It was a wall cloud, a gigantic, impossibly thick doughnut of roiling maroon and black clouds. It was centered directly over the rooftop, and the whole thing rotated slowly, counterclockwise. The eye of the storm was a darker, blacker color, shot with stars, overlaid with a paler, thinner layer of clouds. Intermittent flashes of lightning pulsed inside the cloud like a heartbeat. Thunder rolled overhead shaking the building right down to its foundations.

Huh.

He'd seen a lot of things before, but this was something new. DarkDean stood there for a moment, head tilted to one side, transfixed. Anything huge, powerful and destructive immediately captured his attention. Always had. Like Dean, he loved storms, but for the wrong reasons. Dean loved the beauty and the power.

DarkDean loved the random path of destruction a storm could take, the lives lost or shattered.

He knew he was one sick puppy, but hey, he was okay with it.

The wind picked up, and the rain that came down was a gentle mist at first. It came in waves, misting, then increasing to a torrent, and the wind rose and whipped the rain sideways in sheets that stung the skin and eyes.

DarkDean closed his eyes and breathed deeply. He had wind in his hair, rain on his face, and Sam's blood on his knuckles.

Oh hell, it didn't get any better than _this_.

Sam made a choking sound just then, and DarkDean opened his eyes and looked down at him. Sam was on his knees, held upright only by the fist DarkDean had hooked into his jacket front. Sam's lips were swollen and one side of his face was dark with bruises and blood. DarkDean felt an immediate surge of irritation that made the palms of his hands itch.

He was just getting started and he wanted to make this last, because he was pretty damn sure if Dean or Coyote, especially Dean, came roaring back from wherever they'd got to, they were gonna make him pay for daring to lay a hand on the damn brat.

"To h-hell with y-you…" Sam whispered dully.

Trust Sam to throw a buzzkill on even this. Couldn't even enjoy a good thunderstorm in peace because of him.

"Language, Sammy, language." Sam's head rocked back as DarkDean nailed him right in the nose, and the thin trickle of blood that ran out of Sam's nose was mighty satisfying to see.

"Now is that any way to talk to your awesome big brother? _You_ shot_ me_, and this ain't the first time you've done it, now is it, bro'? If anybody should be cussin', it oughta be_ me_. You had to shoot me in order to save me. Is that _it_? That's your _excuse_? Dude, that's the lamest thing I've ever heard."

So he hit Sam again.

_Hey, I could break his fingers,_ DarkDean thought to himself. _Make sure he won't ever be able to hold a gun ever again, much less fire one._ Dean and Coyote didn't appreciate the fact that what he was doing would benefit them, too. Dumb bastards.

He looked down again. Sam grinned up at him, wide and bloody.

Oh, shit. That wasn't right.

Sam reached up and twisted the hilt of the knife in Dean's lower side. The second heart jumped sideways like a startled thoroughbred horse. DarkDean looked down, frozen by the sudden pain that swept through his body, wide-eyed in disbelief.

Sam's eyes flared murky yellow. _"Now, now…can't have you bruising this fine packaging, now can we?" _

**000000**

A/N One:Watching those scenes in the cabin in Devil's Trap gave me the idea for Dean's trick with the bullet. John didn't die when Sam shot him, so I'm guessing that's because John was human (even tho he still had Azazel inside him) and the fact that being shot in the leg wasn't a mortal wound, like the head or heart would be. The magic or whatever's inside the bullet seemed to stun Azazel a bit, disorient him; he didn't bail immediately like you would expect him to, and he left only when John gained control and begged Sam to shoot him. I figured if Dean used his TK to nudge the bullet into hitting him in the shoulder instead of the heart his "I'm only human, please don't kill me" psyche-out would probably work, at least for a while.

A/N Two: Kachinas are supernatural entities capable of influencing the natural world. They're the guys Coyote and Dean invoked several times for help. Bear wanted in, so I let him.

Took my time writing this because I wanted this to be memorable, hopefully something ya'll had never read anywhere else, but still distinctly Supernatural. Good, bad, or indifferent, or WTF, I'd like to know what you think.

Next chapter will be posted on Friday. Faster posts after this, I promise. I've already written up most of the last remaining chapters. We're in the home stretch, folks.


	37. Chapter 37 Past Glories

A/N: Well, here it is. Wanted to post this thing earlier than Friday morning. I had even written what I thought was the final draft, and my muse came staggering in when I was half-asleep a day or so ago and told me some other stuff she wanted me to add...grumbles... Damn muse.

I have nothing personal against Wal-Mart. Could've just as easily been Target or Sam's Warehouse, or the Mall of America. Just so we're clear on that.

The spellwork Azazel uses is the same spell Meg used to break Bobby's Devil's Trap in "Born Under A Bad Sign". I got the text from the Supernatural Book of Monsters, Spirits, Demons and Ghouls, page 169.

_**Then: **_Dean's shot with the Colt, and has to deal with it.

_**Now: **_Azazel's demons stage a coup while ol' Yeller is otherwise occupied. Dean's situation goes from bad to worse. Much worse…

Disclaimer: Don't own 'em, so please don't sue. I'm broke.

Spoilers: Devil's Trap

_**Dog Eat Dog**_

_**Chapter 37 – Past Glories**_

_**One**_

Some of the scars were barely visible, just below the surface of his skin. He'd always been lucky enough to heal pretty quickly, and what scars he did have made up the life story that he told to the magic inside Sam Colt's bullet.

The searing pain of two ribs snapping like twigs as he was hurled into a wall by that ghúl down in Tallahassee, Florida.

The tightness in his back and shoulders whenever Sam and Dad had one of their damn arguments.

Bar fight up in Utah; broke two of the fingers on his right hand against that guy's jaw. Dude turned out to be a fugly wearing a stolen human skin, and when the fight spilled out to the alley Dean had to pull his Colt and shoot the dude in the head with those silver loads. Barely stopped the bastard.

Four deep clawmarks across his forehead, courtesy of those daeva in Chicago, Illinois. It was a wonder the blood loss hadn't dropped him in his tracks, but adrenaline kicked in, had to get him and Sammy to safety, they were no good to Dad if they both ended up stone cold dead.

Stab wounds in Washington state, broken bones in Indiana.

Got a fever from a fugly bite up in New Jersey. Found out later on emergency room personnel had a betting pool going on: even odds that he wouldn't make it. Wouldv'e taken that bet if he'd been in his right mind.

Dean sang a song of pain, spilled blood, muscle fatigue, fear and loss, and the silver in the bullets and the killing magic inside grew quiet. He wasn't afraid of dying, never had been, but he was afraid of dying before he'd gotten things done. Dean hung on with the same unreasonable stubbornness he'd always had about everything else. He'd get Sam and John and Bobby to safety, get out of this mess somehow alive, and then he'd turn everything over to Coyote. He'd given the Old Man his word. Didn't have much else in this world, besides Sam, Dad, the Impala, and what was in his duffel. Man's word was his bond, more important than money in the bank.

He'd go willingly behind that solid dark wall, and it would be a sweet relief when he did.

_**Two**_

The demons crouched underneath the earth, and they waited.

They'd been patient up until now.

Old Yellow Eye had promised them he could open the hell-mouth from the other side. He promised them the blood of infants, the tender flesh of humans, warm bodies aplenty to occupy, to ruin and discard as they saw fit. They were going to recapture past glories, open up an era of unparalleled carnage and horror such as the world had never seen.

And so far, they'd gotten nothing.

They'd waited. They'd been patient.

It was rumored that Azazel was going to use a Trickster to open the portal; it was also rumored that the Trickster was Coyote and that God's Dog had somehow gotten himself ensouled in the body of one Dean Winchester, of all people. A legendary Trickster inside a lethal young hunter's body? That was madness. In all millennia every single time a demon made a bargain with or tried to subvert a Trickster the deal_ always_ went badly. No one had the nerve to tell the yellow-eyed fool that his plan might not work.

Azazel was stuck on the idea of having a pet Trickster all his own, to heel obediently at his side, and the fact that said Trickster was also John Winchester's eldest son made the idea all the more attractive. The multitude went along with the plan, because it might have worked. It might have.

But just in case it didn't, there were those among them who had power of their own. There was a small group of twenty wraith-witches who could open the hellmouth just as well as Coyote could by himself. As a group they were strong enough to cut the lines of force that barred them from the surface of the earth. If they broke through on their own Azazel would no longer be in charge. It was a grab for power, and it was worth the risk. Old Yellow Eyes was an arrogant tyrant, and the others were just waiting for him to trip and fall.

A ripple of movement went through the multitude of demons underneath Wal-Mart. The most visible section of the portal was directly underneath the store, but a larger portion of the hellmouth stretched well underneath the parking lot. The demons parted ranks like the Red Sea once did, let the hags take their positions for the breaching ritutal.

The time was _now_, and time was something that Azazel had run out of.

_**Three**_

He was drunk. Yeah, that was it. Drunk. Had to be the reason he was seeing all these weird freaky things. Gus Amato vaguely remembered staggering into his apartment, and gratefully collapsing into that big easy chair in front of the tv. He had enough energy to grope around for the damn remote, and when he turned the tv on the last thing he remembered was David Letterman doing that stupid top 10 reasons for whatever.

Things got a little hazy after that. Something dark pushed into the air all around him and he couldn't breathe. He tried to yell out, but he couldn't make a sound.

After that things got downright freaky. Black metal chains that sizzled, stray dogs that weren't really dogs at all, and he and his neighbors were out in the streets running around, chasing the damned dogs, chaining them up, then the ground opened and they dropped the dogs in.

Then everybody jumped in after the dogs. It was hot and dark down there.

That was the part he _really_ didn't like.

He was still back in his apartment, slumped over in that easy chair, drunk as a skunk, dreaming. Yeah. That was it. No other explanation for it. Gus yawned to himself, even though he couldn't really feel his own body. He was feeling no pain, and that was the whole point of getting shit-faced drunk in the first place. After a hard day at work, guy needed to unwind, didn't he?

He didn't even scream as the pale ugly hag dug her too-long fingers into his chest. It was all a dream, right?

It had taken some persuasion and the promise of more human bodies to persuade the Ursi Taku to lend some of the people they'd taken from Vashon to the cause. The breaching ritual needed blood, human blood. It was a quick wet way to open the portal. Twenty human hearts were raising dripping wet and still beating into the darkness underneath the Wal-Mart parking lot. The wraith-witches were all linked together now, and they began to chant as one…

_**Four**_

Azazel lashed out, with his mind and sent Dean slamming into that far brick wall. Judging from the boneless way the young hunter's body hit the ground and the large dent in the wall Azazel figured the darkling wouldn't be a factor from now on, and with any luck Dean's back was broken during the impact.

The second heart died as Azazel pulled the knife out of Dean's side.

The Demon nearly laughed when the two cat things charged him. They tried to claw their way through the barrier, and Azazel was in a mood to do some more damage. He grabbed each one of them with his mind and flung them off the roof, hissing and squalling like two angry kittens. It was _so_ easy.

He'd waited long enough. He'd waited for Dean's body to drop dead, but when it appeared that the Colt's magic was somehow being blocked, Azazel had gotten tired of that darkling manhandling Sam like that. It was one thing to hide from Dean and Coyote, deep inside Sam's flesh, but the dark one didn't have any problem damaging Sam, and that, ironically enough, was something Azazel was not going to allow for too long.

Dean Winchester had been shot nearly point-blank with the last bullet Samuel Colt had forged, and somehow the damn boy managed to survive so far.

Azazel was impressed. Of the thirteen bullets eleven of those hits had been lethal. Azazel still remembered how it felt inside John Winchester's body when one of those damned bullets hit. The pain was excruciating; the energy Colt used seared John's nerve endings. The Demon had been dazed, confused, slow to act on its own. It had never felt that kind of pain before in its life. John Winchester actually held Azazel inside his own body, and that was unheard of, something no mortal had ever done before, and Winchester ordered Sam to shoot him in the head with the last remaining bullet.

Sam refused, and in that moment's hesitation Azazel forced John's mouth open and fled.

It didn't like to think about how close it had come to oblivion. Didn't matter, anyway.

Sam was his now.

The others wouldn't wait any longer. He was sure of it. He'd heard the grumblings, heard the rumors and he wasn't surprised by any of it. He'd deal with them as soon as he released himself from that damn circle.

Sam's body stood in the middle of the circle, barely blinking in the rain. Head down, Azazel stared at the letters and symbols underneath his feet. Some of it was Sumerian, and the Demon briefly wondered _how_ and _where_ the hell Coyote had picked _that_ up in his many travels. It looked a lot like a Devil's Trap. There was one countermeasure Azazel knew he could use.

"Spiritus immundi, ungularum suarum emittee paulatim iram. Domina, persona carnis ossissque, toti mundi, trepidationais pennarum, tu appellatus vir, vertias et mensura. In murum somni pii, spiritus immundi, ungularium suarum emittitte paulatim iram."

Nothing happened.

Sam's mouth twisted up into a vicious snarl as Azazel cursed to himself; he scowled at Dean, lying still and crumpled up against the wall. Dean might as well been a part of the pile of broken bricks around him, because he didn't move or blink as the rain came pelting down on him.

The boys had been very tricky so far tonight, and the Demon would take great pleasure in severing Winchester's head from his body. It would pull his remaining heart bloody and still beating from his chest and laugh about it.

First things first.

The Demon hummed to itself as it used Sam's body. It was some little barroom ditty it had picked up somewhere, back in the middle part of the twentieth century, way before Sam had even been born. It had roamed through Europe then, Germany especially. The Night of the Long Knives, beer halls, swastikas, canisters of Zyklon-B and fake showerheads. It especially liked those sleek black SS uniforms and those mobile gas chambers that rolled through the countryside. Those were the days.

Thunder rumbled overhead. It was the calm before the storm. Azazel could feel it, could feel the pressure building up in the air above him. He was no stranger to wild, freak weather. Wasn't any accident that this storm was centered over the Wal-Mart store.

Azazel was halfway through the circle, with his back to Dean, when he heard something that froze him in place for a moment. A soft intake of breath. A low growl from behind, more felt than heard.

Azazel let out the breath in Sam's lungs out in one long exasperated sigh.

He felt the rumble in the earth below through the soles of Sam's boots. He was out of time, and he knew it.

"Why aren't you dead yet?" Azazel snarled as he turned Sam around, and Coyote laughed.

_**Five **_

_**He brought me back.**_

_Dean's hands on his skin, fingers digging into the soft underside of his throat. That slight electric tingle that was annoying at first, then quickly grew to be downright painful. The murderous look in those wild yellow eyes, completely at odds with the sad deep voice that echoed inside John's head._

_Dad, please, I – I was mad at you for what you did._

_**My boy brought me back…**_

_I hated you for what you did. How the hell d'you think I'd feel, you makin' a deal with the damned thing? Why can't I use what I've got to help my own family? _

_Sam yelling for Dean to stop, his voice faint, distant, and in that instant John got it. He understood. It was a trick. And Dean couldn't let Sam in on it because Sam was with the Demon now, and if Sam knew the truth, then so would that yellow eyed bastard._

John looked down at his hands, felt his heart pump warm blood through his veins, heard the intake of air as his lungs worked. In and out. In and out. Two hours ago, he was a ghost, a shade. Two hours ago he was roasting in hell fire. Now he was alive and well, strike that, breathing at least. He wasn't well, didn't know if he'd ever be well again.

He'd died because of Dean. Now he was alive again, and that was all because of Dean too.

Bobby was cool about it. He didn't sit there and stare, but oh yeah, he was keeping an eye on him. John knew that.

_We're not leavin' my boys behind. Dean said they were coming, and I trust him. Even_ _with everything that's happened, I trust him. He may not believe that, but I do. Try to ditch my boys and I will shoot you and that damn dog of yours too. _

_**Six**_

The GTO's 350 V8 engine roared to life, powerful, solid and steady. The car's frame vibrated slightly with the sound of the engine, but there weren't any rattles, or squeaks; there was nothing loose or off-balance about the car at all. The car was like a quarter-horse: tough, dependable, massively solid.

Bobby pulled the car away from the cluster of cars and buses behind them. He parked the car at a slight angle, facing the store, out in the center of the parking lot. It was a large, clear space, big enough for several tractor trailer rigs to fit in comfortably, big enough for Bobby to turn the GTO around on a dime when the time came to shag ass like Satan himself was after them.

The way things had been going, that was a distinct possibility.

Bobby just hoped that the layout of the parking lot hadn't changed from the first time he and the boys came through. He didn't like to assume anything, and never mind that old saying about assuming will make an ass out of you and me. Hunters who assumed anything usually found themselves horribly maimed or killed. Or worse. Pure dumb luck could only go so far.

Bobby trusted hunter's instinct a little more. Sometimes either one could make the difference between getting out alive or having your ass handed to you. Right now Bobby's hunter's instinct was telling him that if he tried to drive off, for whatever reason, John Winchester would go medieval on him, quick, fast and in a hurry.

Condie expected to ride shotgun; she was as big a fool for the passenger seat of a car or truck as Rumsfeld had ever been. Fool dog would stick her head out of the window of Bobby's truck, hang her huge paws over the top of the door frame, close her eyes and grin like an idiotwith her tongue hanging out while the wind ruffled through her fur and those ridiculously large pointed ears of hers.

When Bobby opened the door and pulled the passenger seat down, motioned for her to get in, Condie stared at him in disbelief. _The back seat? Boss, have you lost your friggin' mind?_ She growled a little at John but immediately hopped in the back seat without further comment and not much hesitation. It would be a close fit when Sam folded his long lanky frame back there.

Bobby still doubted that Dean would make three in the back.

John sat with the shotgun cradled in his lap, all coiled energy ready to uncoil at a moment's notice, deceptively calm, with that curiously blank look on his face. It was the same expression Dean frequently wore; didn't surprise Bobby one bit that the boy had copied the look from his daddy. There was a thunderstorm of emotions going on behind those deceptively mild eyes. Bobby could only imagine what was going on inside John's fool head.

Man finds out that his eldest son is one of the very same creatures that he's devoted his life to hunting down and destroying, and he still trades his life for the boy. Goes to hell for him, and goes willingly. John was rigid on the subject of fuglies. Bobby knew that. The sight of Mary Winchester burning and bleeding on the ceiling of Sam's nursery had curdled something inside John's soul. There was evil in the world, and before he got to that yellow-eyed son-of-a-bitch John was going to make them _all _pay.

Thunder rolled and lightning split the sky above them. The wind picked up considerably, and sheets of rain blew almost horizontal. Black and maroon clouds roiled in the sky overhead, which was why Bobby just happened to glance in the rear view mirror at the store behind them.

It was a simple mistake. Easy to mistake the rumble for the rumble of the goat's engine. Bobby felt the hair on the back of his neck raise up painfully, and when he glanced in the rear view mirror the hair on the back of his head stood straight up. His eyes widened as he stepped on the gas, and the GTO leaped forward nimbly, just as the ground underneath them shook and the concrete cracked in long spiderweb patterns that snaked across the parking lot…

_**Seven**_

The Demon forced the corners of Sam's mouth to turn up into a smirk. "Oh, I see. Your boy is off somewhere else, being tricky, and he's left his faithful dog to guard the house."

Coyote ignored him.

Coyote closed his eyes, tilted his face up towards the sky. He raised his hands up waist high, palms out, and the storm responded to him.

Lightning crackled overhead, splitting the sky in two. The wind picked up, whistling and shrieking around the edges of the rooftop. A small vortex of air formed around Coyote, gently ruffling his ---Dean's --- hair and clothing. The loose gravel at his feet jumped and rippled as unseen waves of force radiated outwards from him in concentric circles.

_Faithful dog __**this**__, bitch. _

Coyote opened his eyes and growled softly to himself as he stepped forward. Despite the rain and the mist he stared at Sam and the Demon with the clear unblinking gaze of a top predator studying a prey animal.

Even though he was locked deep inside the prison of his body Sam actually flinched from the look, tried to submerge himself even deeper. The Demon suddenly had the feeling that using Sam Winchester as a human shield wasn't such a good idea. That would work only with Dean Winchester.

And Dean wasn't here.

"So, Roamer, how's that family thing workin' out for ya? This isn't the first time baby brother's shot your boy. He's afraid of you, Old Man. Your own family's afraid of you. You're nothing but a fugly, a critter, something that John would love to hunt down and kill."

Coyote bared his teeth, and his answering chuckle was a low throaty growl. "Wastin' your time, demon. Those head tricks of yours don't work on something like me."

"You want to strike back at them. I get it. I understand. But if you hurt Sammy, I don't think Deanie's gonna be too happy about _that_."

Coyote smiled slowly, slyly. The side-tilt of the head and the smile was…_unpleasant_. Somehow alien. Dean Winchester had never looked at Sam that way. _Never._ "Better tell it to someone who gives a damn. Boy's not drivin' now. _I am._"

"He's your blood. He's family," Azazel said shrilly as he made Sam step back. Damn dog….

"Got walled up all those years 'cause of him. Sasquatch ain't exactly a favorite of mine, y'know? And why are you even talkin' to me, anyway? Yap yap yap. You demon bastards don't know when to shut the fuck up."

Coyote moved, inhumanly fast, and he covered the distance between them in the blink of an eye. He was inside the circle and on Sam before Azazel could even move. The Demon felt something jerked out of him, away from him, from around him. The sensation passed and Azazel found himself still standing in the middle of the sigil.

The silver blade clattered to the bare pavement. The Demon couldn't hold it anymore.

It stared down at its hands and its couldn't stifle the cry that welled up in its throat. It didn't have to.

Azazel couldn't scream, or curse. It needed vocal cords to do that, and it didn't have any. Not anymore.

It stared at its hands, and they were smoke. It wasn't clothed in Sam Winchester's body anymore. There was nothing between him and the outside world. It still couldn't leave the sigil. It was trapped inside the circle.

Azazel knelt in the center of the sigil, a man shaped outline of dark billowing smoke. The symbols in the circle glowed with a queerly cold blue light. The demon's form was lit up from the inside by what looked like lightning flashes of the same peculiar ice blue light.

Its eyes bulged, its mouth gaped open in a soundless shriek of pain and horror.

Something was very wrong. It hurt. It was in pain, for the first time in a year, since that night in that backwoods cabin, and the sensation burned inside, white hot agony, enough to force it down on its knees, hard…

_**Eight**_

The GTO shuddered as the ground shook underneath its tires. Bobby pulled the car around the tangle of cars and buses and turned so they were facing the building again.

"What the hell d'ya think you're doin'?" John snapped.

"You gonna shoot me, you dumb jackass, go right ahead. Something's happening. Can't you see that? We can't stay in one spot."

"We're not leaving without my boys."

"We gotta move around, but we're not leaving," Bobby grated out. "You point that shotgun at me and I'll kick your ass right here and now."

_**Nine **_

Didn't hurt exactly, just felt funny, peculiar, something jerked out of him, sliding out as quickly as it has slid in before, and the jolt of hitting the ground ratted Sam's spine, but when the back of his head hit everything went blurry, a hazy white fog…

Hands on his face…large metal ring on the right hand … both hands rough, capable…

firm but gentle.

Dean was here. It was okay. Dean was back.

Sam opened his eyes and saw yellow.

_Oh, shit…_

Coyote straddled him, bore down on him with his full weight. Sam pushed against the gravel covered concrete with the palms of his hands. He kept moving his head, glancing down at the hand on his chest, then back up at those yellow eyes

"Stay still," Coyote growled softly. Sam was having a hard time wrapping his head around this. Sam blinked as he felt the bones of his left cheekbone knit back together. The same hands that killed John Winchester were the same hands that were now healing him. Sam recognized the familiar touch of those hands.

Those same hands had patched him up hundreds of times with stolen surgical needles and silk thread, bandages, they'd lifted him up, given him a hand, steadied him whenever he was feeling shaky, whenever those damn visions flared up inside his skull so hard and so painful the world went away in a smeary yellow blur of pain. That touch grounded him, helped him keep his sanity, always had, always would, and despite himself Sam leaned into Dean's hands gratefully.

Sam shifted his gaze slightly, tracked to the bloody hole in the shoulder of that battered brown leather jacket.

_I shot him. I shot him with the Colt and he didn't die. He didn't…_

"You killed Dad ---"

That intense stare softened. Coyote shook his head.

Sam stared at him, long and hard, and Coyote's gaze in return was mild, relaxed. It should have felt weird, intrusive, but it didn't. Coyote tilted his head down and slightly to the side as Sam stared at his eyes, and then the Old Man shrugged.

_Can't hide what I am, kid. I won't. _

"A word of advice," Coyote rumbled out loud, not unkindly, his voice as low and deep as thunder. "Stop shootin' your brother, yeah?"

Despite himself, Sam nodded.

Overhead, thunder rolled and lightning split the sky in two, strobing everything in stark white light.

Coyote stared into Sam's eyes and his own eyes widened in shock at what he saw behind him. Massive black wings unfurling slowly against that dried blood colored sky, and it was too soon for that, too fast, things had gone south but what else was fucking new, and Coyote's grip on Sam tightened almost to the point of being painful.

Sam stared down at his hands in disbelief. He was coming part at the seams, turning into thin white smoke even as he watched….

Something large and dark swept into his field of vision from the right. Dark wet blood flew into the air, and Coyote went sprawling.

Sam couldn't see anything anymore. Everything went white, there was no sound except for the panicked beating of his heart. He could hear himself breathing, great shuddering lungfuls of air, and he wondered how that was possible when he didn't even have a body anymore.

He cringed when he heard a low growl at his right side. Should have known Coyote was only tricking him, just setting him up for the kill. He should have known.

Another low growl, then a whimper.

"Condie, what the hell are you---"

Sam frowned to himself. Bobby. That wasn't right.

Everything came back in a snap that made his ears pop and his head ache. Sam cradled his head in his hands. He felt like he was two years old all over again, playing peekaboo with Dean in the back seat of the Impala, in some motel room or cabin somewhere.

_Peekaboo, dude, I see you. Now give it up, why don't'cha._

He didn't want to pull his hands away, didn't want to open his eyes and look, but he had to, sooner or later.

Sam raised his head, opened his eyes, and stared straight into the startled eyes of John Winchester.

_**Ten**_

Feathers. Felt like feathers at first, brushing up against him, but hell, that couldn't be right. There were razors in the feathers 'cause he bled like a stuck pig where ever they touched him. His clothes were ripped and torn, just like his skin. He was on his back, legs and arms in an awkward sprawl. He felt weak; his body was too heavy. His right shoulder throbbed, a distant reminder of something he couldn't remember. It was all he could do but lay there, pushed up on his elbows.

Thunder boomed overhead. Dean ignored it. He stared straight ahead, transfixed by what he saw in front of him. Dean felt a desperate need want inside himself, wanted to kneel down, wanted to bow his head in supplication. He felt worthless, small, incredibly ugly.

He wasn't worthy to be in the presence of such a creature.

It – he -- was perfect. He was beautiful, inhumanly so. Seven feet tall, glorious, naked, sleek and muscular. Broad shoulders, slim hips. Skin the color of polished bronze, and the face of a fallen angel: full lips, high cheekbones, a patrician nose that was elegant and refined. Broad black wings spread out behind him, so large they seemed to reach easily up into the heavens above. Dean could see every detail, each feather, perfectly formed, just like the rest of him. Straight blue black hair hung almost to his waist, but it was the eyes that caught Dean, held him. They blazed at him, the color of molten gold.

Dean closed his eyes, shook his head to clear it. This wasn't right, it was too soon, they'd had a plan, but it was too soon, way too soon, they should've had more time…

_Azazel…the demon, oh God, no…_

"I see you, Dean. I see you, little boy," Azazel crooned in a sing-song voice, and Dean cringed as he opened his eyes again. Even the voice was so beautiful Dean couldn't stand it. It made his insides bleed. He couldn't ignore it. Didn't want to.

"You screwed up, sport. You really did." Azazel stepped forward, and Dean felt fear so strong he actually trembled. He pushed his body backwards into motion, backpedaled clumsily with his arms and legs.

Azazel smiled. Even at a distance that smile had an effect; Dean wanted to crawl over and kneel at Azazel's feet, wanted to place his forehead against Azazel's instep and beg for forgiveness. "So this is part of the ritual, huh? Return me to what I was before so you can vanquish me? I was Grigori before. A son of God. I was old when you were just a blind mewling pup suckling at your bitch mother's teat."

"And…and you still… talk… too damn much…" Dean gasped.

A small flicker of resistance guttered inside him, like that faint yellow glow in the center of his eyes.

_Fight this, you stupid bastard. Fight it! This fucker killed Mom. He took Dad._

_He'll make Sam his pet if you let him. Don't just lie there, get up. Get up. __**GET THE HELL UP, RIGHT NOW!**_

He couldn't.

His right hand hooked into a claw, fingers shifting uselessly through that loose gravel. A wave of hopelessness and despair made Dean's insides clench. He'd fucked up. Again.

Azazel reached out one massive hand.

"Dean. Come here."

Getting away from there was the only thing he could think of. Dean somehow turned himself over, tried to crawl away. His knees were rubbery, muscles loose and sprung, and nothing worked right. He was crawling on loose greasy marbles. He could hear Azazel's footsteps behind him, the slight rustle of those massive wings.

All his life his body was the one thing he could depend on, and now he didn't even have that. Even on his hands and knees the ground seemed a lot further away.

He crawled a few feet away, and then stopped.

Nothing he did mattered. Not any more.

He had one job, a simple one, really, take care of his family ---

_--- just do that, Dean, why can't you even do that one simple thing ---_

---and he just kept on fucking it up, over and over again. God, he was a worthless piece of shit. No good to anyone or anybody. Not his family, not the people he tried to save when he hunted. This whole town, murdered. All because of him.

Dean laughed out loud, at least he meant to, but what came out instead was a low, bitter sob that caught in his throat. He stared at the cracked and broken concrete under his fingers and shook his head in disgust. His breath hitched in his chest, he couldn't breathe. He stopped that silly business of trying to move and just crouched there, head hanging down, panting so hard his teeth showed in a wide humorless grin like a dog. Down on his knees like a dog, served him right, what the hell was he thinking, how could he and Coyote ever have thought they could even win this? What's dead should stay dead, and he should have been gone over a year ago, hell, would have saved the world a lot of pain and trouble…

Something large pushed into the small of his back, and as soon as he was touched he felt what little energy he had in him just…just go away. The pressure on his back increased as Azazel pushed down with his foot. At the last moment Dean turned his head to the side, saved himself from getting a mouthful of gravel.

"Knocked the Old Man into the background, just so you and I could have a little chat. Angel to freak. How's that?" Azazel purred.

"F-Fuck you…."

"You shoulda kept on going, kid. Gotten clear of this place. Maybe given John a chance to play medic, get that damn bullet out of you. But instead you came back, just like I knew you would. Poor pathetic Dean. Always putting yourself in harm's way for people that don't give a damn about you."

Azazel fisted the front of Dean's jacket with one hand. He turned him around, lifted him up until they were nose to nose.

"Sam shot you. _Again_," it whispered slyly into the shell of Dean's right ear. That voice filled him up. It was all the truth. He couldn't deny any of it…

…_yess…_

"John hates you…."

_You're some unnatural, ungodly fugly, the same as that yellow-eyed bastard that killed my wife. Our lives were destroyed because of a thing like you. You're not Dean. You're __not__ my son—_

"You let his precious Mary die. You're a disappointment to everyone around you."

…_everyone who loves me leaves me…_

"You're just like the things he hunts."

…_freak…'m a freak…_

"Why don't you just give up, Dean?" Azazel whispered. "…let it go…"

Azazel smiled at him, and Dean moaned. That smile was too bright, too white. It was so beautiful, and he was only a dirty human. He didn't deserve it. "You gotta maintain your concentration to keep tricking Colt's bullet, isn't that right? You can stop now, Dean. It's all right. Let it go…"

Dean's eyes flashed a peculiar cold white glow. His grip on the bullet loosened. The silver and the killing magic slowly pulsed inside him, and he didn't care anymore…

**000000**

A/N : Yeah, yeah, I know. Another life-threatening cliffhanger for one Mr. Dean Winchester. Don't hate me. I enjoy this. Maybe too much. I also enjoy reading your reviews, so don't be shy. You guys haven't been so far, so why start now?

I figured I'd end it here. What? Don't look at me like that. This chapter would have been way too long (thirty pages!), so I cut it in two. Second part is already written; will post it Monday.

_**Next:**_ Dean, Sam, John and Bobby fight for their lives at Wal-Mart.


	38. Chapter 38 A Hole In The World, Part One

A/N: The words to the breaching ritual? Bastardized 'em from the Rituale Romanum. Flashback dialogue from "In My Time of Dying", "Everybody Loves a Clown" and "Devil's Trap" (in italics) came from the episode summaries on Jensen Ross Ackles Fans website. As always, italics indicates thoughts and flashbacks.

Another A/N at the end of this thing.

Disclaimer: Don't own 'em. Just playin' with them for a little while.

_**Then: **_Azazel's demons stage a coup while ol' Yeller is otherwise occupied. Dean's situation goes from bad to worse. Much worse…

_**Now:**_ The chapter title says it all, don't 'cha think?

_**Dog Eat Dog**_

_**Chapter 38 - A Hole In the World, part 1 **_

**One**

…_**acutus ejicit ille est princeps maledicti homicidii…**_

Azazel swayed back and forth slightly as he silently got into the rhythm of the chant. A slight warm breeze slipped smoothly over the massive contours of his body, ruffled the razor sharp edges of his huge black wings.

He hadn't realized how much he'd missed having them. Moving around from place to place as a writhing mass of black smoke, possessing humans and discarding them as casually as one might crumple and throw away a wad of paper was all very well and good, but it had been a long time since he'd had flesh of his very own, _this_ flesh, the very first meatsuit he'd ever had.

In his mind's eye he could see all twenty wraith-witches underground, along the boundaries of the parking lot, their pale skeletal faces set atop swirling black smoke, deep shadows where their noses and mouths should have been. The tattered hems of their robes twisted and uncoiled in the dank dark air like living tentacles.

…_**dicturus est impiis locum sedes ardebit…**_

And to think that before he'd wanted to stop them from breaching the barrier all by themselves. Not anymore.

He was impatient for them to finish.

…_**sed impugnare et homine miserabili tu auctor incestus…**_

Azazel turned his head just enough so that he could keep an eye on Dean Winchester lying on the roof several feet away. The young human whimpered and curled in on himself even tighter, as though he could actually feel Azazel's stare against his skin. The freckles on his skin highlighted how pale he was, almost to the point of being transparent. He shivered and trembled, the muscles in his hands and arms twitched.

Dean was currently preoccupied with dying, fading away just like the storm overhead, and Azazel was content to let him. There was no sense in obsessing about What Might Have Been. Dean's time, his usefulness, had run out, and Azazel had no problem with that.

He was beautiful, this one was. In all his life Azazel had only seen one other male creature who could even compare to Dean in appearance, and that one, oddly enough, was Lucifer himself. They were so much alike in appearance and temperament they could have been twin brothers. Lucifer was just as stubborn and headstrong as Dean and Coyote had ever been.

…_**et victus abscedat, dirissme, et metu trepidi stupore defigit…**_

Azazel was already thinking ahead, considering what kind of dramatic entrance he would make when he appeared before the multitude in this form. Spectacle was everything in this business. The followers would follow the strongest, and once he'd made a few more examples like he'd done with the witches the rest would fall in step just like they always had. He needed to show them that they'd made a mistake when they betrayed him, but he could be merciful, too.

At least until he didn't need them anymore.

Below him, the chanting rose to a crescendo, then faded away. The wraith-witches were flesh now, each one a link in a chain, and they were vulnerable beneath the parking lot.

The boundary between earth and Hell had been breached.

_**Two**_

"Sam?"

"_Time of death: 10:41 a.m."_

"Sammy?"

"_Did you go after the demon?"_

_  
"No."_

_  
"You know, why don't I believe you right now?"_

_  
"__Can we __**not**__ fight? You know, half the time we're fighting, I don't know what we're fighting about. We're just butting heads. Look Sammy, I've…I've made some mistakes, but I've always done the best I could. I just don't want to fight anymore, okay?"  
_

"Sam, it's me. It's Dad."

Sam stared at him, frozen. _No no it couldn't be you can't be because if it really is you then I just…I just…_

Sharp smell of gunpowder and blood -- Dean's blood -- in the air…

He was in the back seat of some car, not the Impala and Bobby was turned around staring at him like he'd lost his mind and maybe he _had _because _Dad_ was there, sitting on the passenger side but the last time he'd seen Dad was just before Dean pulled the burial shroud over his face, right before they…they burned him…

_Oh God, I shot Dean with the Colt. I shot him…_

Sam's stomach twisted, a violent, greasy flip-flop that made his throat ache.

…_too tight too close can't breathe gotta get out now, right now…_

Sam lunged for the door handle, pushed, kicked out with his long legs and arms as he jammed Bobby forward up against the steering wheel. Bobby muttered something obscene under his breath but Sam wasn't listening, didn't hear anything but his heart knocking hard and painful against his ribcage and that deep velvet deep smooth voice he never thought he'd hear again in this life.

"Son, talk to me. Sam?"

He was on his hands and knees next to the car, broken concrete poking through the worn knees of his jeans and he couldn't even feel it couldn't feel any of it just that burn in his gut and the wetness on his face, limbs turned to rubber, shaking uncontrollably while his stomach churned with bitter acid and _oh God I'm gonna hurl…_

_Dean's eyes flashed, shadows of pain and anger and something else Sam couldn't identify underneath that bright morning sun. "I just think it's really interesting this sudden obedience that you have to Dad. It's like 'Oh, what would Dad want me to do?' Sam, you spent your entire life slugging it out with that man. Hell, you picked a fight the last time you ever saw him and now that he's dead…__**now**__ you want to make it right? Well, I'm sorry Sam, but you can't. It's too little, too late."_

_"Why are you saying this to me?"_

_"Because I want you to be honest with yourself about this!" Dean snarled. "I'm dealing with Dad's death! Are you?"_

Sam dry retched again and again. His throat closed up so tight he thought he was gonna choke and he was dimly aware of the faint smell of spicy aftershave and leather, strong arms around him, holding him, familiar heavy stubble against his own smooth cheek. Sam's throat ached, and his heart ached, and he was on his knees and he didn't care, and he was crying like a damn baby, and he didn't give a damn about _that _either.

"Oh God…oh God, Dad…. thought he'd killed you, I – I thought…but he didn't…he brought you back instead…I shot Dean. I shot him with the Colt. I shot him…"

"I figured as much," John said softly, quietly. "Sammy, it'll be all right…"

"No. No." Sam's eyes glazed over, wet with tears. He shook his head_ no _over and over again, short jerky motions. He couldn't stop himself. It wasn't right never would be all right. "It won't. It can't be. I shot him, Dad, I shot Dean with the Colt…."

"Where's Dean, Sam? Why didn't he come out with you?"

"He's not…I don't…" Sam faltered. He breathed in Dad's scent, and all he could think about was the way Coyote looked at him, those sad yellow eyes, and the blood on Dean's jacket.

"Sam?" John's voice hardened, a tone of command that Sam had always hated, and oddly enough, it was something he responded to now. "Where's Dean? Where's your brother?"

"He…he's up on the roof…with the demon."

"Oh, shit," Bobby muttered softly. John's face darkened as he glanced up sharply at Bobby. Eyes narrowed, Bobby stared at a point behind them. He raised the shotgun slowly, carefully, as he pointed the muzzle out the window, down towards the ground, to their right.

"Sam… John…" Bobby said in a low voice. "Get back in the car. Don't make any sudden movements. Get your asses back in the car. _Move. Now._"

Sulfur in the air. Red eyed shadows flowed smoothly over the ground all around them.

_**Three**_

Azazel closed his eyes and reached out with his mind for the witch closest to him. She recognized his touch. Her mouth opened in a soundless, impossibly wide scream as he ripped her open, right across her belly. Thick dark blood dripped down her legs, sizzled as the droplets hit the ground. The fire came next as yellow flames erupted in the air around her. She dissolved into a cloud of red hot embers that swirled in the darkness like fireflies.

Her death went down the line of twenty in a cascade effect. First one dead, then seven, then twelve, eighteen, and finally all twenty burned to ash, just like Mary Winchester, Jessica Moore and countless others before.

_M-Momma? _

The Demon frowned. Something human itched inside its head, something very familiar and extremely irritating. It was the panic-stricken voice of a very young child caught in a nightmare.

Azazel couldn't help but smile.

He turned. Dean knelt there in the center of the sigil, hugging himself, rocking back and forth, his eyes glazed and distant.

_Angels watchin' over me…Momma said angels are watchin' over me…_ Dean's thought voice was barely audible, frantic, filled with fear and confusion. _…she told me…Momma said… Momma said…_

_Is that __**you**__ inside my head, Dean?_ Azazel sounded amused. Dean startled at the thought, his eyes wild with fear and disbelief. He ducked his head, stared at the ground in front of him as he rocked desperately back and forth. _If I don't look, it's not real. If I don't see it, it's not there…_

_Momma said…Momma said…_ Dean's lips moved silently as he continued to rock back and forth. He trembled as a weak pulse of killing energy from the Colt's bullet surged through him, lighting his pale skin up from the inside out.

_You're not dying fast enough, boy. _Azazel glared at him.

"…nuh…no…no…" Dean shook his head over and over again. "…angels…" he whispered out loud, hoarsely, "Momma said …angels were watchin' over me…Momma…"

His shoulder hurt and his whole body hurt but he was a big boy, this many fingers one two three four and he tried to be brave like Daddy wanted him to be, so he didn't cry even though he wanted to but he nearly lost it when he looked up and Azazel was suddenly _there_, looming over him, blocking out everything, reaching down for him with those large hands of his but even though he was scared Dean was still John's kid, he still managed to bite back the scream rising in his throat.

"…no… please, Momma…Daddy…"

Fear radiated out from Dean in waves. Fear and something else unseen in the air, strong enough to make Azazel take a stumbling step back, something strong enough to ripple the loose gravel underneath them in long loose waves that crashed against the edges of the rooftop like breakers on a beach.

_**DADDY, PLEASE…**_

Lightning split the sky overhead. Thunder rolled so deep it shook the girders of the building, right down to the foundation.

_**PLEASE DON'T LET HIM DO THIS TO ME…**_

_**Four**_

"Hell mouth's open," Bobby said flatly. The GTO rumbled loudly as it crouched there in the only clear space on the entire parking lot. All that damn horsepower underneath that slightly dented hood, they could outrun just about everything man-made out there, but they couldn't outrun _this_.

The shadows had come alive. There were things out there with spiny red skin that prowled around on six legs. Pale worm-like things glided through the air, barely touching the ground. The demons in smoke form didn't seem so bad compared to some of them, which was just another indication how fucked up everything was.

Some of the others looked human, reverse negative people, bruised dark shadows where their eyes and mouth should have been, dressed in period clothing seen only in history books and on-line reference databases. They had red eyes, silver eyes, and some of them didn't have any eyes at all. Azazel had somehow managed to unite all these evil sonsabitches together.

Seemed damn stupid the first time any of them had heard about it, but one of the best things a hunter could carry was a black permanent marker. The sigil of St. Vladimir went on the inside of the roof, the windows, every square inch of the car's interior, and after that Sam and John spread salt around the interior of the car, on the floor, over the dashboard, around the edges of the doors and windows. The inside of the car looked like a tagger had gone apeshit crazy, only this time with Latin and anti-demon wards, but crazy apparently was working, at least for the moment.

The air stank of methane and sulfur and wet blood. The demons and beasties didn't seem much interested in the car or the humans inside, at least not yet, anyway. They were all turned towards the building. Some of them crouched atop the abandoned buses and trucks, others slunk in and out, pacing back and forth, eyes flashing. They milled around, occasionally hissing and snapping at each other. John looked around, his eyes narrowed to slits. Some of these sumbitches were familiar looking. Some of the others though…he'd spent a year down in hell and he'd never seen critters like these before. "What are they doing?"

Bobby took his foot off the brake and let the GTO roll forward a few feet, then stop. The

fuglies nearest to the car hissed and snarled as they moved out of the way. Maybe they could just drive away from there? _Nah,_ Bobby thought. _Couldn't be that easy. Nothing ever is. _

Bobby shrugged. "Waiting. Waiting for something."

"I'm going back to get Dean," John rumbled as he reached behind him, grabbed Bobby's second duffel from the floor by Sam's feet. "You take Sam and get the hell outta here."

"Dad, no---"

_Oh yeah, here we go. _"You set foot out there you won't get five feet before they pull you down."

"I'm not leavin' Dean."

"Dad, I'm going with you." Sam pulled Bobby's other duffel onto his lap.

"Sammy, no. You stay with Bobby. I won't let ---"

_**DADDY…**_

The force behind the word bruised his skin, spiked him right between the eyes. All the pain that had gone before was minor compared to this, a hangnail, a fucking paper cut.

_**DADDY PLEASE… **_

John had the sensation of being picked up, grabbed by impossibly large hands, felt his skin tear and blood flow as something huge with golden eyes clawed at him, slammed him up against cold hard concrete again and again. Worse than the pain and the blood and the bruises was the intense fear behind it, the fear of being all alone in the world, the ice cold feeling of being abandoned by the people who loved him the most. "Dean. Jesus," John groaned.

_**DON'T LET HIM DO THIS TO ME…**_

John held the shotgun in one hand and the strap of Bobby's duffel in the other, his hands tightened into a death grip that he couldn't even feel anymore. His eyes squinted closed as everything went blinding white.

_**Five**_

_You're not dying fast enough, boy. _

_Damn right. Damn straight. Can't leave…can't. Not yet…_

It grabbed him again, those oversized fingers digging deep into his skin. He didn't mind the pain, could barely feel it anymore. It was the price he had to pay. So be it. Thing had the face of a fallen angel, wings too, big honking black ones that blotted out the sky, but it was a fugly, no doubt about it, and from those damn golden eyes he knew exactly what fugly it was, so the ritual hadn't gone right. They'd fucked up somehow. This was his mess. Had to clean up his mess, then he could go.

Dean gave a mental shrug as he was face-planted into the concrete again. So much pain he couldn't feel it. He wasn't dead yet, and old Yellow Eyes was getting pissed.

He wasn't the only one. He could feel Coyote again, and the Old Man growled deep in his throat, or he was growling, Dean couldn't tell. He could feel death in his shoulder and he decided that was something he could share. He pulled at it with his mind and nearly moaned aloud when he felt it move up, out of his flesh and up towards his skin.

He knew he wasn't thinking straight, knew right about now he was probably crazy, out of his fucking mind, but crazy was the only game in town right now, and sometimes crazy was exactly what certain situations needed. Like now.

He'd seen Dad do a magic trick once, sleight of hand, and he'd stared fascinated, as John slipped that large coin in between his large broad fingers, made the sucker appear and then re-appear, just as smooth and slick as could be. His fingers weren't working right, and Ol' Yeller laughed as Dean pushed against its chest with hands that were weak and fumbling. That was all part of the trick, of course. At least, he could pretend that it was.

Damn thing stopped laughing when it looked down and noticed that hole in its chest. Nice and round, about the size of a nickel.

About the size of the bullet from the Colt.

Dean grew quiet. He settled back underneath Azazel's grip. He waited. Azazel stared at him and Dean stared back, the center of his green eyes fading to a soft golden yellow.

Coyote bared his teeth at him in a feral smirk, and Dean nearly laughed out loud.

_Gotcha. _

Azazel stared. It was Dean, it was Coyote, he could see the trickster, the human, the young adult and the child, all in the same skin, and those yellow eyes blazed hatred at the sight of Azazel.

The Demon stared at the hole in his perfect bronze skin. _"What is this? What is this?"_ He dug his fingers into the soft underside of Dean's throat, tightened his grip as he slid Dean backwards up the wall, his feet easily dangling two feet off the ground.

_Tricky bastard. _

The damn bullet. The bastard slipped the bullet into….

Increased pressure on his windpipe, and Dean's eyes rolled up into his head. His face and body relaxed as unconsciousness took him, and it wouldn't be long now, next would be the sharp crack of bone as his neck broke, and Azazel would make sure that this was one death this tricky bastard wouldn't be coming back from…

Azazel's skin tingled as he heard movement behind him, as the shotgun blast ripped into him from behind. Special loads, then. Rock salt, silver and consecrated lead.

"You son of a bitch," John grated. "Get your damn hands off my son."

_**000000**_

A/N: Well, everyone expected a cliffhanger, so I thought I'd try something different. You know me, I'm evil, so don't get _too_ happy. Right now there's a heavy snowstorm passing through St. Louis. I came out in this thing, so don't fuss at me 'cause I posted this late (Well, actually a week late, but what the heck). I didn't want to delay posting this part, so here ya go. I expect to be snowed in for the next couple of days, so the next chapter will be posted on Tuesday.


	39. Chapter 39 A Hole In the World, Pt Two

A/N: Yeah, I re-wrote part of this. Blame that muse of mine, will ya? Only place I 'm gonna use this stuff, so I figured what the hell. Got through the snow storm okay; thank you for all your kind comments and concern.

This one is a little longer than I'd intended it to be. For those of you at work, good luck dodging the office snitches. I always enjoy reading your comments and reviews. Thank you all for taking the time to read and review, and much love to all you lurkers out there, too.

Info about demons and herbs taken from "The Supernatural Book of Monsters, Spirits, Demons and Ghouls" by Alex Irvine. As always, italics indicates thoughts and flashbacks. Don't know if any of the Wal-Mart superstores have floor plans like this one; I made it up to suit the needs of the story. "Cere" is Redd and Slymm's nickname for Coyote.

Warnings: Cussing (Dean? John? Yep!), demon stuff, extreme Winchester angst, violence and epic weirdness. No big bang in this chapter, folks; that's in the next chapter, I promise. Once those darn Winchesters start with the angst not even a horde of rampaging demons from hell can stop them.

Disclaimer: Don't own 'em.

Spoilers: Pilot, In My Time of Dying, Faith

_**Dog Eat Dog**_

_**Chapter 39 - A Hole In the World, part 2 **_

_**One**_

The others were up and out. She could feel the ground shake underneath her as the air filled with that sulfur stink. Redd crouched in the deep shadows alongside the building and squinted at the shapes and sounds in the parking lot. Her ears pricked sharply at the sounds – clittering, hissing, wet sucking noises of mucus coated skin against rough concrete. She saw bony figures with legs like stilts, pale short squat creatures with no eyes and gaping mouths filled with long sharp jagged teeth. There were others too, ones she'd never seen before, and they milled around over and among those abandoned cars and trucks.

They were waiting for that yellow eyed bastard to show.

The only thing Redd could think about was tearing Sam Winchester's throat out with her teeth and claws. She didn't give a damn about anything or anyone else, just her sister and Coyote.

Slymm crouched beside her, and a shiver ran through her sleek brown coat. "Cere. He shot Cere."

The quavering tone in Slymm's voice raised Redd's hackles; she felt her claws lengthen in response, but Slymm wasn't the one she wanted to hurt. "Have to get back up there." She turned towards the store entrance then stopped short as her senses warned her.

Something was pushing its way up through the floor inside. She caught the heavy stink of sulfur and wrinkled up her nose against it.

"We can't touch the brother."

"Listen to yourself, will you!" Redd snarled. "I'm not leaving Cere up there. Yellow eyes is in the boy. I don't care if he's the brother, we're killing him tonight."

_**Two**_

"Well, well, well." Azazel drawled, sneering. "Look what the coyote dragged in." He sounded calmer than he really was. The skin on his back burned like the fires of hell as the pellets sizzled their way into his once perfect bronze flesh. Several blown off black feathers floated lazily earthward, broken and singed. The bullet hole in his chest was a dark bruised shadow, tacky with dark drying blood.

There had been certain trade-offs, deals he'd made to bolster his own strength after he'd Fallen. Certain things he'd done to make himself immune to salt, to render holy water useless against him. But that was _then, _this was _now_. He looked more impressive physically, but all that good work, that solid planning had become undone. He was weaker, vulnerable again to all those things he'd left behind, and it was all thanks to this bruised bleeding little pissant he had by the throat.

Azazel swung Dean quickly around in front of him just as John pumped another shell into the shotgun. "Let him go," the hunter snarled. "_Now_."

"You can't be serious, Johnny." Azazel curled his oversized fingers around the underside of Dean's throat. He hooked his other arm around Dean's waist and pulled him backwards until there was no space between them. "Put your gun down and I'll think about it."

"Like hell." John's eyes were flat, grim as death.

Dean's eyes blinked open at the sound of John's voice. "Dad," Dean breathed faintly, the sound more like a sigh than a word. He was deathly pale underneath all the bruises, the claw marks and blood.

"Dean? Son?" John's voice softened. "It's okay. I'm here now."

"Oh, stop it. I'm getting all misty eyed here." Azazel licked at the shell of Dean's ear with his long forked tongue. Dean shuddered. "Bet you never knew how much Daddy loves you, huh, Dean?" the Demon whispered.

"..get...get the hell off me…freak."

"Now, is that any way to talk to me, Dean?" Azazel purred into Dean's ear. "Why, I'm practically family."

"..f-fuck you…"

_They were coming at him from behind._ Tricky bastards. Azazel put his back against the wall and lifted Dean up a little higher in front of him.

Sam and Bobby stopped several feet away. Sam held a semi-automatic pistol in a two handed grip; Bobby's shotgun was shoulder high. Condie stood next to the older hunter, her ears pricked forward, the hackles on her neck raised.

Azazel could smell consecrated iron, rock salt and silver. His time was short, but he could still do some damage. He could take them all with him. Tangle them up in their own fears and regrets, then crush them where they stood with his bare hands while they were entranced. That would make dying a little easier, at least.

"You claiming this little fugly as your _son_ now, John-boy? _Really_? Gee, what a difference a few years makes. Let's just go out on a limb here, go all wild and crazy with speculation. Fantasy Island time. You can do _that_, can't you, John?"

John felt a tremor go through his broad shoulders.

"Even if you_ did_ win somehow, what then? In a week, a month, a year, old Deano and that damn dog of his will wake up one morning and you'll have ditched them. Again. Without a word, without a warning. Oh, you'll tell yourself that you know what's best, and it's for the good of the family and all, but the truth is, he's a living breathing reminder of how you screwed up as a father. All these years with that…that thing inside him, and you didn't really try to help him, did you? He's a broken soul, and it's all because of you."

_It was true. God help him, it was all true,_ John thought. He'd failed Dean. Failed his boys all his miserable life.

"You wanna fall on your knees and worship me, Johnny?" Azazel said mildly.

John's knees shook in response to that voice. God, he wanted to, so fucking much. The Demon chuckled to himself as the shotgun pointed at its head wavered.

John lowered the shotgun to his side; his body shook with the weight of his guilt.

"That's better." Azazel smiled unpleasantly. "Sam's still mine. Dean's one soon-to-be-dead puppy. We're gonna have hell on earth, John. You won't even have to take a trip down south for that."

Sam felt his heart nearly stutter to a complete stop.

Jessica Moore turned to him, tightened her grip around Dean's throat. "Let me hurt him, Sam. Please?" She shook her long wavy blonde hair and smiled brightly. "You can at least let me do_ that_, can't you? I died because of him. You wouldn't have left if it hadn't been for him. It's Dean's fault that I died, can't you see that? You dreamed about me dying, Sam. You dreamed about it and you went with him anyway."

Sam slowly lowered his weapon. _Jess. God Jess, I'm so sorry… _

_Maggie._ Bobby's gut clenched at the memory. _Dear God, it was Maggie._

"It's not your fault, Bobby." Maggie smiled warmly. She wore that blue flowered sundress he'd really liked, her long brown hair tied back by a yellow ribbon. Bobby felt his breath catch in his throat. She stood there in front of him, whole, alive and breathing.

There hadn't been enough of her left for a proper burial.

"You left to go on that hunt, and I let them in the house. They changed right in front of me. I was so scared…"

Bobby lowered his shotgun and just stood there, eyes blank, swaying a little back and forth.

"Dad…don't…don't do this," Dean croaked. "Take it…"

"Hush, Dean." Azazel idly striped the side of Dean's face with one extended claw tip. "Children should be seen and not heard."

"…take the shot, Dad…take it…"

Azazel snarled angrily to himself and dug his fingers, claw-like, into Dean's left side. Dean whimpered a little, but he wouldn't scream out.

The shotgun dropped from John's nerveless fingers as he staggered forward. "I…I can't… won't…"

Azazel quirked an eyebrow. "You deserve to die just like Mary did, John."

"No," Dean whispered, hoarse, broken. A crushing weight pressed down on his chest and his left arm. He couldn't move, couldn't even fight back as the Demon jerked him backwards by the throat viciously.

"Don't be so hard on him, John," Azazel purred smoothly as John stumbled to a stop right in front of them, his hands clutching feebly at his stomach. John's face twisted with pain, and so did Dean's. "You weren't going anywhere. None of you were. You had to know that."

John straightened up and Azazel saw his death in the human's eyes.

Moonlight glinted off that silver flask in the man's right hand and something wet splashed against Azazel's face.

Azazel caught the scent of St. John's Wort in the holy water as his skin reddened and thick white clouds of foul-smelling white steam rose up from his skin. A quick vicious shove sent Dean sprawling forward into John and Azazel leaped skyward.

Bobby made a low guttural sound deep in his throat. He raised his shotgun and fired.

_Jess. He used Jess. Bastard won't let her rest in peace -- _Sam tracked Azazel with the gun and emptied his clip into him as the Demon lifted away from the roof.

Dean's lips moved soundlessly. _I'm fine. I'm okay._ _D__on't look at me like that._ John gently lowered him to the ground.

The ground was further away than it looked, and the air around him was dark and murky, like polluted lake water. Dean couldn't keep his head above it. He was weighted down by the pain in his chest. It was familiar; he'd felt it before but he couldn't remember where. The ground underneath him felt soft and springy, like a mattress, and Dean couldn't understand why.

"Dean, you stay with me, you hear me?"

_I'm okay. Damn it, I'm fine. What'cha getting all emo about?_

"Stay with me. That's an order, son."

…_yessir…_

"Dude, you're not dying on me. You're not."

_Lousy bastard just knocked the wind outta me. Gimme a minute. _

"Stay with me, Dean. Stay with me…"

_Just a minute to catch my breath…_

His mouth felt too thick, too loose and weird but he mumbled something that sounded like "…sorry…sorry…" He breathed in darkness and everything grew soft, dim and quiet.

He couldn't stay awake, but he didn't die yet. Dad told him not to.

_**Three**_

_Yellow eyes did it…yellow eyes killed them…_

The word swept through the multitude, a scratchy whisper like claws screeching down a chalkboard.

No one held back. No one stopped on their way topside, not even the ones who'd supported the wraith-witches. They'd come too far to stop now. There would probably be more examples made, as Azazel rooted out the others who opposed him. Some of them had never been earthside before. Oaths of allegiance had been made, but that was down in hell, and these were demons, after all. Alliances were fluid and could be broken at any time. They all knew that.

Several hellhounds poked their muzzles up through the floor in Women's Wear. Scent reminders of warm human flesh in the air made their mouths water. Thick yellow drool dropped from those gaping jaws, sizzled and ate holes in everything.

The others skittered, slithered and crawled out. Some left trails of slime behind them. The tile floor burned black as some of them set foot on it. Oversized black eyes blinked rapidly, unaccustomed to the light. Some of them didn't have eyes at all, only claws and pale grey skin stretched tight over spines and bones.

The abiku demons were the first to realize there wasn't any warm flesh waiting for them. They picked up on the scent of children in the air, pure, warm and succulent. There was one in particular, an unborn infant still in his mother's womb. It would have made a tasty morsel ripped squalling from its mother's flesh, but both the mother and the child were gone from this place.

The abiku felt out of sorts anyway. They never traveled together in packs; it was against their nature. Several of them became so frustrated they lashed out at some of the black dogs nearby.

Some of them had never been topside before, and they paused as they took it all in. It was the promise of a brand new playground, with new things to see, filled with all the human toys they could possibly want.

Faint scent memories of human flesh hung in the air. The rest were long gone, but there were still four left, full of life energy and warm wet blood somewhere in the store.

The others were content to let the hounds go first.

_**Four**_

Coyote came back slowly. He felt sluggish, his limbs heavy and useless. Heavy stubble pressed up against his cheek, and those arms around his body cradled him gently, like he was some fragile thing that would break otherwise. Coyote sniffed, caught the scent in his nostrils (_blood…family_) and identified it as his sense of smell deepened.

John Winchester.

John Winchester was _holding_ him.

John Winchester was_ hugging_ him.

_Not what I expected, _Coyote thought distantly.He wasn't in pain and for once nobody was yelling or pointing a gun at him. _S'nice._

He blinked his eyes open tiredly. The old hunter with the shotgun (_does he __**ever**__ put that damn thing down?_) and that Sasquatch kid with the sad puppy dog eyes stood there looking down at him, and they didn't react when he opened his eyes. Didn't try to shoot him or make a move on him, which was a definite plus. Overlaid over everything was the smell of gunpowder and the Old Man chuckled a little. Gunpowder. Heh. That was the joke. Big cosmic joke. Two of these humans had already tried to kill him. It was only a matter of time with the third.

Maybe the smell of gunpowder was making him a little edgy, but it was all a little too warm and fuzzy for Coyote's taste. The boy should be here for this, not him. He wasn't the one they were really here for, and the Old Man knew that. He was the lone fugly in a room with three hunters and their hunting dog, and he'd feel better once he made himself scarce.

_Crazy damn family, niño. You deal with 'em._

He smelled antiseptic, and he wrinkled his nose up at it. _Hospital_, Dean thought hazily. _Damn hospital. Not again…_

He hated the way the sheets felt, all stiff and scratchy against his skin. That damn gown they made you wear. They loved to stick you with needles for any damn reason; the next time some bastard came at him to draw blood he was gonna start throwing punches. The food was lousy and daytime television sucked. Jesus, no wonder he hated those places. A couple of times he snuck out as soon as he was able, found his clothes and the keys to the Impala and he was gone, dude. Outta there.

He felt arms around him, the press of a body against him, and he startled. Must've called an orderly in to stop him. Hell, he could leave if he wanted to. He tried to move, tried to push this big bastard away, make him step off. They couldn't make him stay…

"Dean?" Dad rumbled.

_Oh shit. _Dean froze.

Dean opened his eyes and blinked slowly at the overhead lights. Stacks of boxes all around, mouthwash, lightbulbs, every damn thing you could imagine. The walls and doors were covered with graffiti. He couldn't remember how they'd gotten there, and he wasn't about to admit that he was feeling a little dazed and confused at the moment. It was all good.

Dad was here.

And Sam. And Bobby. He didn't mean to ignore them as they stood there looking down at him, but he did feel kinda beat up and wore out. Chest hurt. Musta gotten jacked up by the fugly during the hunt.

"How you feelin', dude?" Dean could hear the smile in his Dad's voice, and he set his chin on top of Dad's broad shoulder. At first his arms wouldn't cooperate, but he finally persuaded them to raise up and hug Dad back. Sweet. This was better than good. He could rest up for a few more moments.

After all, Dad was here.

" 'm okay." Dean scowled slightly. Voice was a little on the hoarse squeaky side. He cleared his throat and tried again, finally sounded a little harsher and a helluva lot more macho.

Better. Much better.

He was good at hiding, good at keeping things from Dad and Sam. Just didn't want to worry them, they all had enough shit to deal with every day, especially Dad. Girly stuff like feelings just didn't matter, not when you were trying to keep from being disemboweled or eaten alive. He didn't mean to ignore Sam and Bobby as they stood there looking at him, but he was just _so_ tired.

He always felt smaller whenever Dad hugged him. Smaller in a good way, a safe way. Dad's touch made him feel safe, didn't matter if Dean was being stitched up and it hurt like hell, didn't matter if they were sparring and Dad had just popped him a good one that rocked Dean's head back and filled the world with stars. _This was Dad._ The world was right and safe with _him_ in it. _What's dead should stay dead_ didn't apply to Dad.

_Dad's here._

The penny dropped on Dean a full minute later.

He's** here**. Dad and…and Sam… and…Bobby.

_No. Oh God, no…_

_Daddy, please…please…don't let him do this to me…_

They weren't supposed to be here. They were supposed to leave as soon as he'd dropped Sam off. He couldn't leave like he'd told them he was going to. Didn't want to deal with all the high drama once they'd realized he wasn't coming. He had to keep that demon son-of-a-bitch occupied so he wouldn't come after them. Dean didn't figure that they'd wait around for him. Why would they?

Everyone who loved him, left him.

Not this time.

They'd hung around, waiting for him, and he'd reached out for them in a moment of weakness. He hadn't meant to do it, but he'd done it just the same.

They were here. Right smack in the middle of this whole ungodly mess. He'd killed his family. Fucked up again, just like he always did.

He couldn't catch his breath all of a sudden. His heart fluttered, hard and rough, skittered sideways like a startled foal about to take off at a full gallop.

_No, please. Not this. Not now. _His heart paid him absolutely no attention. Dean closed his eyes against it, and he felt John stiffen.

Damn.

John pulled back, quirked one eyebrow at him. He gently pushed Dean back against the wall. Dean stared at the floor as John studied his face (too pale, covered with a thin film of sweat). The air in the room was suddenly chilly against his skin; Dean shivered uncontrollably and John frowned, his eyes darkened as he noticed that slight movement.

"I'll get a blanket," Sam muttered softly.

_Damn, am I that obvious?_

Sam moved around the room, and Dean leaned his cheek against the wall. He focused on a point behind and above John's right shoulder, anything to keep from looking at Dad's face and see that look of concern.

Sam came back a few minutes later, and Dean almost groaned aloud. _Hell no, dude._

The kid had two blankets. A large bottle of aspirin and a bottle of water.

Sick people's stuff.

Dean tried to straighten up, tried to deepen his breathing, and it was an epic fail. He couldn't hide what was going on inside him. He couldn't do anything but sit there – no, strike that, leaning against the wall was the only thing keeping him upright. If he tried to stand up on his own he'd fall flat on his face.

And every damn body in the room knew it. Even Bobby's damn black dog was staring at him.

John put two fingers to that pulse point underneath Dean's jaw. Dean wanted to pull away, but that instinct warred with the idea that this was Dad, and Dean was the good son who never disobeyed, and the good son won out.

So he took the aspirin Sam gave him and gulped down a mouthful of lukewarm water behind it. It was hard to swallow at first, but he did it. John pushed one of the blankets underneath Dean's head and opened up the other one and spread it carefully over him, like he was some god-damned fragile glass statue that might break or crack.

"Bobby?" John growled softly, his eyes never leaving his eldest son. "Need to talk to you for a moment."

Bobby nodded. His eyes were shadowed by the bill of his baseball cap.

When John stood up and moved away Sam took his place. It was too much trouble to stay focused, but Sam was here, right here next to him, and Dean didn't want to drift off. It took an effort, and his damn eyes swam in and out of focus, but finally there was only one Sam in front of him.

Just one. Worried Sam. That little crease between his eyes. The tight set to his mouth. The muscle on the left side of Sam's jaw twitched slightly. He tried not to stare at Dean, but he didn't want to look away, either.

Dean would've preferred bitchface Sam. Thoroughly pissed off Sam. Maybe that just proved how fucked up mentally he really was. He was too tired to deflect a chick flick moment. It wasn't fair. Dean could see the damn emo thing looming on the horizon like a nine-hundred pound gorilla.

Dean wanted to snarl at Sam, "Stop hovering over me, will 'ya? I'm all right. I'm okay. Just don't look at me like that, 'kay? I'm not sick. I'm not."

He wanted to get up, walk over to Dad and Bobby, show them all how strong he really was, he wasn't weak, he really wasn't.

There were a lot of things he wanted to do.

And he couldn't do a damned thing but lean against that damn wall, a friggin' invalid under the watchful eyes of his baby brother.

Fucking sad is what it was. Propped up in the corner of a storeroom in some supercenter (God, he hated Wal-Mart, now and for-fucking-ever), weak as a damn newborn kitten, covered with blankets, his heart made of old brittle glass, watching John and Bobby talk about what they were gonna do next, when _he_ was the one who had fucked up, and _they_ shouldn't even be here.

Coyote came back up to the surface. The Old Man seemed hesitant, almost shy about something.

_Niňo, I'm sorry. You gotta see this. You gotta know what's coming._

Dean felt his eyelids grow heavy, and as he followed Coyote he felt something like relief.

John and Bobby stopped over on the far side of the storeroom, near the door with the salt line spread on the floor. Condie trailed Bobby like a big black shadow.

"You got any healing amulets in those duffels of yours, Singer?" John inhaled, a slight hitch in his chest, stared down at the floor. When he raised his head there were dark shadows in those brown eyes of his. "Dean's heart is giving out on him. I think…" John's voice softened. "I think he's dying, Bobby."

Bobby didn't say anything at first. Didn't nod, didn't move. What the hell do you say to _that_? He had that freezing feeling inside, the feeling he always had on hunts that had gone south. "They're in the third duffel bag I had. It was out of reach. Got left back in the car when we came back here."

"Damn." John closed his eyes.

_**Daddy, please…**_

He recognized the voice. Never even thought about fighting the pull it had on him. No fucking way. It was Dean. His boy needed him, and after all the times he failed him, left him, for good reasons or for bad, he wouldn't fight this.

…_**please don't let him do this to me…**_

The memory of him fading out in the car came back all on its own: the looks of shock on the others faces through that growing white haze, the realization of what was happening and then that stubborn look on Sam's face as he grabbed the dog's collar and reached out and fisted John's shirt.

And Bobby. Damn fool reached out and grabbed John's arm. They all faded out together, and then came back to reality again, up on the roof.

John's tone was casual at first, like he was discussing the strategies they were going to use on a hunt. It was almost like a Marine lecture, but not quite.

"Maybe it was a side effect of being shot with the Colt. Maybe he finally wore himself out."

John shrugged. Either way didn't matter. "It's only a matter of time before the demons find us. I don't know how much more strain he can take. I know my boy. He'll try to send us back out the way we came, and he'll die trying. Alone, surrounded by those things. Be a mercy if his heart gave out before they got to him. There's no guarantee of that." John's gaze was steady, determined. "I won't let him die alone. They won't get the chance to use my boy, even after he's dead."

"And he's not going to let you do _that_," Bobby replied solemnly. "Dean's just as stubborn, just as pigheaded as you are. It would break his heart if you died now, after he brought you back. You trading yourself for him just about broke him, John."

"I did what I thought was best, Bobby." John growled. "Wouldn't hesitate to do it again. You tryin' to tell me I don't know what's right for my boys?"

Bobby laughed shortly, and the laugh had no humor in it. "Roastin' down in hell for over a year sure didn't sweeten your disposition did it, you damn fool. I'm trying to tell you that I'll stay here with him and take care of both of us if Dean can get you and Sam out."

"You'll --- what?"

"Did I stutter?"

"Never would ask you that." John turned and glanced over at his sons. Dean was asleep and Sam sat quietly next to him.

"He'd die saving Sam. And you. Both of you, not just the one. You can't ask the boy to choose between his father and his brother."

"I'll talk to him. Order him to leave with us. We can get some place safe, away from here, get him to a hospital…"

Bobby shook his head. "He's probably dead either way, John. The strain will kill him."

John glanced over just as Sam leaned over and gently checked Dean's vitals again. The younger man unfolded those long legs of his, stood up and slowly walked over. John felt an intense flash of irritation. Sam had that mulish expression on his face, the same look he always had whenever he was about to knock heads with John.

_Oh God, Sam, not now._

"I'm staying with Dean," Sam said simply in a low tone of voice. "No matter what."

"That's not your decision to make, Sam," John intoned flatly.

"I'm grown, Dad. I can make my own decisions." Sam thrust out his chin. It was the same old response to any order of John's that Sam felt was unreasonable. "I'm not going to step out of the room while the adults decide how I should live my life." He glanced over at Dean, his face creased with concern. "This past year I've been worried sick about him. He thinks that what's dead should stay dead. He thinks he wasn't worth that deal you made."

"I did what I thought was best, Sam," John's voice was low, hard. "Would've done it for you too. You know that."

"That's not even the point. I'm not trying to be funny, Dad, but how else did you think Dean would feel about that deal you made?"

John didn't have an answer for that one.

"I got stabbed earlier and Dean healed me," Sam announced casually. John and Bobby glanced at him sharply.

"Something's wrong now. He can't heal himself. Either he can't or he won't. He tells me all the time that he's the oldest, so he knows best. He can be the most stubborn, obnoxious bastard I've ever known, and if anything happened to him I couldn't live with myself. Last couple of days I've tried to take care of him." Sam shrugged. "Haven't done a very good job of it. I'll keep on trying until he doesn't need me any more."

"I can order Dean to leave with us. If he dies, it won't be alone with those things. He'll be with his family."

Bobby frowned. "That might not work, John. What if Dean dies while he's getting us out? You got any idea where we'd end up?"

John bristled. He was unaccustomed to being questioned. "You got any ideas about this that make sense, Singer? So far you've been talkin' a load of shit."

"I'm sayin' things you don't want to hear, you stubborn idjit. Don't make this situation tougher than it already is."

Sam's mouth was set in a firm, hard line. "Dean won't leave. I know that already. He'll stay behind to close the hellmouth. He thinks this town was murdered because of him. Either we all get out together, or we all go down together. You can do what you want. I'm staying."

John sighed. "I'm not going anywhere, Sammy."

"Never wanted to live forever, anyway," Bobby muttered softly. He reached down and scratched Condie roughly about the ears.

They had work to do, and they got to it.

Sam and John added cat's eye shells to the salt lines. Bobby made up small bags of angelica root, mixed and prepared the protective herbs while John and Sam laid them down. One pallet of coffee cans and two bags of devil's dung later a line of smudge pots was set up on the perimeter and set alight. Sam and John fanned the smoke around. Stuff stunk like hell, but it was proven to could drive away evil and dispel spirits. More cat's eye shells and dried St. John's Wort added to the salt lines. Sam blessed crates of drinking water, turned them into holy water. Rue and scotch broom herbs were spread around; Devils' Traps drawn on the ceilings, wards drawn on the floors.

If the lines of defense inside the storeroom were breached, they'd fall back to the roof. Delay the bastards for as long as they could.

They couldn't think of everything, but they tried.

Ever so often John or Sam would go over to Dean, check his vitals, and Dean moved restlessly in his sleep when they touched him. They'd cleaned him up with antiseptic and holy water while he was out, tended to his wounds as best that could under the conditions, but he still looked like he'd gone twelve rounds with a cinderblock. He wasn't getting any better, but thankfully he wasn't getting any worse, either. He moaned a little as John slipped the small sack of angelica root into one pocket, and the vervain into another.

"…no… please…" Dean mumbled softly as he shied away from John's touch.

" 'm sorry…I'm sorry…"

He looked so pale and fragile. John softly ran his fingers through Dean's hair. They'd get through this. Together, as a family. That was the only damn thing that mattered.

Dean's eyes snapped open.

They were yellow. His eyes blazed as he stared at John. Dean growled at him, a deep-chested bass rumble, low and menacing.

The air vibrated with power. It came off Dean in waves, rattled John's bones and his teeth.

Dean moved with smooth inhuman quickness. His fingers clamped around John's wrist and he twisted his father's wrist around. A wave of unseen energy traveled up John's arm. He was paralyzed by it; the pain clenched up his muscles, made him forget how to breathe. It bound him up quickly, brought him to his knees.

Dean stood up, and he didn't let go of John's arm.

He stared around the room at the preparations they'd made, eyes feral and bright. "There's no safe place around me," he growled roughly. "No safe place…"

Sam turned around just then. "Dean, what are you doing---"

Dean waved his hand. Sam slammed up against the far wall. He was pinned there, stuck, unable to move.

Bobby was next.

**000000**

Okay, there you have it.

Let me know what you think.

I post from the library, and because of the holiday next week the library will be closed Monday and Tuesday, so the big bang won't occur until Wednesday. I'll have internet at home in January, but "Dog" will be finished by then.

Merry Christmas, everybody!


	40. Chapter 40 Nature of the Beast

A/N: So I showed up at the library yesterday, which was the good news. Didn't have the diskette with this chapter on it with me, that was the bad news. I get internet at home next Friday, so I've decided it would be fitting that the last chapter of "Dog" would be the first thing I'd post at home, in honor of the occasion. So with that in mind, I'm going to stretch "Dog" out a little between now and the 4th. Italics in this one indicates thoughts; italics and verb shift indicates visions.

I cut this bad boy in half; this is the half that _doesn't_ contain the big bang. I know a lot of you read while you're at work, and even though I know you enjoy this story 20 plus pages in a single chapter isn't very worksafe.

Warnings: Cussing, violence, visions, demon weirdness

Disclaimer: Don't own 'em.

_**Dog Eat Dog**_

_**Chapter 40 – Nature of the Beast**_

_**One **_

_Niňo, I'm sorry. You gotta see this. You gotta __**know**__ what's coming…_

_They have him now. They crowd all around him, chattering to themselves. Dean feels blood on his skin and he hurts all over. This isn't the way he wanted to go out, on his hands and knees, unable to keep his head up. He's a broken toy, a plaything, and they can't wait to crack him open and feed on all the pain he's got inside and what little power he's got left. He's weak, but they can still use his skin, his flesh and his soul. He's not long for this world, but not leaving soon enough._

_He's the last one. He should have been the __**only**__ one._

_The heavy lead weight of his heart is nothing compared to the hollow ache he feels inside. He couldn't hate himself any more than he does now. _

_He flinches when they touch him. He can't remember what happened to his leather jacket, his overshirt or his tee shirt. He's barefoot, and his jeans are in tatters. They giggle as they burn runes into his skin, leave thick trails of slime across his bare shoulders. They thread their fingers into his short damp hair and tug his head up. _

_The better to see you, my dear… _

_Laughter bubbles and hisses in the fetid bloody air. "…poor broken dog…poor little boy…" _

_He won't beg. Won't give the fuckers the satisfaction. _

_Something soft and gentle brushes against his forehead. He can't see what it is, and he doesn't care at first; it's probably nothing good anyway. Soft lips brush his right temple and his milky white eyes widen as he recognizes her scent. Her slim fingers cup the side of his face and he closes his eyes and leans into her touch._

_Her touch brings good memories: cookies baking warm in the oven, clean skin and spring flowers, not charred flesh, smoke and fear. He focuses on the feel of her smooth soft skin against the slight stubble on his jaw, and everything else recedes into the background. He ignores the blood, the crunch of broken bones. It's faraway, it's happening in another room, another time, to somebody else, not him. His body jerks slightly as they tear into him from all sides, but he doesn't scream. He doesn't even whimper. They don't like that, so they rip into him again._

"_Momma, I'm sorry," Dean whispers hoarsely. "I'm so sorry…"_

_Twenty minutes from now John dies first._

_**Two**_

Three hundred feet above the rooftop, his wings beat harder than usual to stay aloft. More feathers had been blown off; his wings were tattered and torn around the edges.

He looked like hell, no pun intended. He was no longer elegant bronze perfection. His back was peppered with shotgun pellets. His arms and legs felt tight from numerous bullet holes. Azazel touched the side of his jaw and scowled at the flakes of red and blistered skin on his fingertips.

He could descend slowly, pick a high vantage place to land. Rally the troops behind him, as it were. But the way he looked now might raise some questions about his ability to lead. Not his changed appearance --- he was still Azazel, and he was Fallen. It was the damage he'd taken. He couldn't show up looking wounded.

Not quite the dramatic entrance he'd intended.

He gingerly poked at the bullet hole in his chest. He didn't_ feel _any different. No pain. No convulsions. No pulsing wave of energy that glazed his skin transparent and reduced his insides to mush. _Something_ should have happened by now; Dean wouldn't have passed the bullet on to him otherwise. Nothing had happened so far, and somehow the Demon didn't think _that _was part of the trick.

They'd screwed up. That was it. Had to be. They'd waited too late, until whatever magic was inside had depleted itself.

Azazel closed his eyes and concentrated. The bullet wounds closed up. The skin on his face and back smoothed out. His wings beat more powerfully as the feathers filled themselves in. He opened his eyes and smirked a little as he looked down at himself. He was beautiful perfection once again. It might be shallow, but appearance was everything in this business.

He could smell the stink of methane and sulfur given off by the multitude of demons below him. The smoke demons contented themselves by circling lazily over the parking lot, but he was up a lot higher than they were. The others were everywhere down there; they filled up the parking lot and spilled over into the street. More were on the way.

He'd let them have their fun with Dean, John and Bobby. As good as they were, even they couldn't stand against an endless horde of demons. Sam Winchester was another matter entirely. It was a shame, but he'd proven himself to be just as troublesome as his father and brother.

There were other generations of special children. It was time to start fresh.

_**Three**_

_My God_, John thought hazily as he met Dean's intense stare. _He looks just like the damned things we hunt._

John's arm fell uselessly back into his lap as Dean released his grip on John's right wrist and moved towards Sam and Bobby. The arm was numb. Dislocated, probably. John made the mental switch from concerned father to dedicated hunter in two seconds flat.

He could appreciate irony, especially when it all but jumped up and almost literally bit him in the ass. Like _now_.

"Leave them alone, Dean," John said mildly.

Dean stopped and slowly swung his head in John's direction. His skin was still pale, the bruises and claw marks had faded slightly, but he hadn't healed himself completely. A sign of weakness, maybe. Something John could use against him.

"You've got _me_. _I'm _the one you want." John's voice was calm, almost nonchalant. "You don't need Sam or Bobby."

The corners of Dean's mouth turned up into a slight smile. "Maybe I _do_," he rumbled.

"No, you don't. I'm responsible for _this_. _For you_. Should have put you out of your misery years ago, and that's the truth. I'm sorry, son."

Dean snorted, amused. "My misery? _Really_, Dad?"

John nodded. "Should have taken care of you the first time you showed those eyes of yours. Would have been quick. Clean."

One of the duffel bags sat open on the floor a few feet away. The bag contained a sawed off shotgun loaded with regular ammo, two semi-automatic pistols with special loads and several razor sharp hunting knives, among other things. He'd have one chance if Dean slipped up and unfroze him. One chance was all that John would need.

Dean's smirk grew a little wider as he tilted his head slightly to one side. John knew the look: he'd seen it many times on feral dogs, wolves, and even black demon dogs as they searched for the weak spot to hamstring their prey.

"Maybe it's my turn to take care'a all of you," Dean growl-whispered and John somehow managed to keep his game face on.

_The protective circle around the perimeter of the room is broken. The smoke from the devil's dung disperses into the maroon night air, through the huge gaping hole in the wall, and the salt doesn't stop them. The runes that John, Sam and Bobby drew on the walls ceiling and floors don't even make the evil sonsabitches pause. _

"_Sam, take Dean and get in the stairwell," John barks as he backs up, a semi-automatic pistol in each hand. He drops most of the demons in the first wave with the special loads but it's not enough and they swarm over the broken salt lines and up and over John like a tidal wave. _

_They stumble run for the stairwell. It leads up to the roof and there's already a fortified salt line laid down just inside the door frame, and an anti-demon ward drawn on the floor in front of the doorway, for whatever good it'll do. The air is full of the stink of John's death and sulfur, wet blood and methane._

_Dean turns halfway around in Sam's grasp. Sam refuses to look back, refuses to do anything but half carry Dean along as he bulls his way through the debris to the stairwell. _

_Dean can't see Dad anymore underneath the writhing blanket of tentacles, claws and snapping teeth. Even in death John still has a powerful pull on him. Dean feels freezing cold inside and he can't understand why his face is wet._

_**Four **_

This one car sat apart from the others, growling and rumbling as though it were alive. It smelled of silver and holy water, consecrated iron and gunpowder, rosemary and mullein. Azazel's nostrils flared open angrily as he recognized the human scents. He forgot about making a magnificent entrance, forgot about the speech he was going to make. All he could remember was the sound and feel of metal crumpling underneath his hands and glass breaking, again and again.

Antifreeze from the radiator puddled on the ground; it wasn't John Winchester's blood, but it would do until the real thing came along. When he came back to himself Azazel was suddenly aware that the car was completely smashed down into the concrete, all four tires completely blown and useless.

The multitude stood frozen all around him in stunned silence.

"Well, well." That smooth deep voice made his insides tighten up. "That's a new look for _you_, isn't it?"

The multitude parted for _him_ like the Red Sea.

He was beautiful, as always. The most beautiful angel God had ever created. He was broad-shouldered, dressed entirely in a sleek black Versaće suit. He wore a neatly trimmed goatee and his short dark blond hair was perfect, not a strand out of place.

He could have been Dean Winchester's twin brother, except for the subtle red glint in his eyes. The newcomer looked up at Azazel and those wide green eyes regarded the Demon with a mixture of scorn and amusement.

"Lucifer," Azazel whispered under his breath.

The bastard surely knew how to make an entrance.

Azazel watched with narrowed eyes as the multitude bowed down reverently. The parking lot became as quiet as the inside of a church. The smoke demons descended to the cracked and broken pavement, and they arranged themselves in a circle around him.

Only Azazel remained standing. He'd bow down when the seventh level of hell froze over solid, and not a moment before.

"I knew you missed the old days, Azazel. I didn't think you missed them _that_ much." Lucifer smiled to himself and gently ran his fingers through the wispy tendrils of the bowed heads nearest him.

"What's happening here is no concern of yours," Azazel said a little _too_ sharply.

Lucifer's tone was so mild and relaxed at first Azazel thought the Prince had misunderstood him. "You know what they say. Sometimes the magic works. And sometimes, it doesn't." Lucifer's eyes flashed red, and Azazel's skin tingled from the top of his head to the soles of his feet. He stared down at his arms and his chest. His mouth gaped open slightly as the wounds came back, dark bluish black holes in his sleek bronze skin.

The demons stared attentively. Even the ones that didn't have any eyes seemed to stop and stare in his direction.

Lucifer didn't say a word, but the message was crystal clear: _You made your choice and now look at him. How do you like him now? _

Lucifer indicated the scene around him with an elegant quirk of one eyebrow. "If you need any help, my door is always open. You know that."

_Like hell._ "I don't need your help," Azazel said stiffly.

"No, I don't suppose you do." Lucifer looked him over and chuckled softly. He faded out in a blaze of majestic yellow hellfire. The bastard knew how to make an exit, too.

Azazel stood there as the growling, hissing and burbling sounds all around him got a little louder with each passing second. The multitude inched closer towards him.

He wouldn't run. He was Azazel, and they were low-level demons.

They needed to be reminded of that.

He killed the ones nearest him the same way he'd killed the witches. It was a hell of a lot more impressive than what he'd had planned. They were smoke, and spiny red flesh, grey leathery skin and long sharp jagged teeth, different types of demons that never would have joined forces before, but they thought they sensed weakness, and they circled around him and closed in.

Yellow flame erupted in the air around them, leaped from one to the other. Flaming ash and embers rose into the night sky and the others shrank back fearfully when Azazel stepped through the wall of flame and stood there, staring.

"Well?"

The Demon smiled to himself as he looked around. The Light-bearer wasn't the only one they bowed down to.

_**Five**_

_I loved this kid like he was one of my own, but one way or another this shit has got to stop._

Bobby tried to lift his shoulders off the wall and couldn't move a muscle. The protection amulet in his pocket wasn't working this time. Condie crouched beside him, frozen in place, her hackles raised, lips drawn over her teeth in a low rumbling growl.

_Third time's the charm, _Bobby thought dryly.Third time tonight he'd stared into those wild yellow eyes. The third time, and the last time.

_Somehere, somewhen, Bobby and Condie fall back, and right then and there Dean knows they're dead, both of them. _

_Something long and whip-like lashes through the air, and Bobby's ripped open from his chin to his groin by long whip-like feelers that end in razor sharp sickle-shaped plates of solid bone. Blood and gore splatters the ruined brick walls in a wide arc. Bobby's knees buckle but he's momentarily held upright on his feet as they swarm over and under him then. They chatter and hiss as they pull his skin open wider and pick him apart. It was quick. Some of the demons had never been topside before, and they weren't very skilled with the cat and mouse thing. They were too impatient to play with their food. _

_Condie stays between Bobby and the swarm. She survives Bobby by eight seconds. _

"I know why you're doing this, Dean." Sam said clearly. "I can see right through this whole evil demi-god act of yours. That voice. Those eyes. You're trying to make us hate you. You're deliberately pushing us away. Me, Dad, and Bobby."

Sam ignored the sudden tensing of his brother's broad shoulders.

"You're going to stay behind and close the hellmouth all by yourself. You've got some stupid notion that you have to atone for everything that's happened. None of this is your fault, Dean."

Dean stared at him, then shook his head as if he just couldn't believe how fucking stupid Sammy could be. Dean looked to the side and bared his teeth in a tight humorless smile, and that one gesture was so Dean-like it gave Sam hope. Hope that he was actually _right_. Hope that he could reach his brother before Dean did something irreversibly macho stupid.

"Before you reached out to him, Dad was coming back for you. _On foot._ Did you know that?"

Dean stopped short. That feral mask slipped. Underneath the wild yellow eyes Dean's expression shifted, became open, vulnerable. Sam felt a tremor go through his body as Dean's mental grip on him loosened. He lifted his shoulders away from the wall but he didn't step forward. Not yet.

"Dad was gonna leave the car, walk back here through a whole parking lot full of fuglies when you called out to him. Bobby and I grabbed ahold of Dad and you pulled us back too. Dad didn't fight you. None of us did. We made a choice, Dean. _You_ have a choice."

Dean shook his head slowly, sadly. "I've got no choice." His shoulders slumped slightly. He looked weaker somehow.

"You have a choice. You _always_ have a choice."

Sam leaned forward slightly; he never took his eyes off Dean's face. "Dean, you don't have to do this alone," Sam said softly. "We can do this together. As a family."

"You'll _die_." Dean's voice cracked, the soft sound of a four year old watching the family that he had left being ripped apart with claws and teeth instead of fire this time. His eyes were slightly out of focus, as if he was seeing something that no one else could see. "You'll_ all_ die."

Six 

Twenty five feet below the roof Redd steadied herself and reached out for another handhold. Slymm brought up the rear about six feet behind her. They couldn't get up to the roof by going through the store; there were hell hounds and black dogs among the demons coming up through the hellmouth and those mutts were likely to regard feline-human hybrids like the sisters as prey.

Scaling brick walls really didn't pose that much of a challenge. Out in New Mexico they'd hunted with Coyote while he was in his animal skin, but climbing wasn't really his style. Redd and Slymm used to amuse themselves by going up into the mountains and climbing sheer rock cliffs as they'd played tag with each other or hunted small game.

Redd's hackles raised as she felt the pressure wave in the air behind her. Out of the corner of her eye she glimpsed some large metal object headed directly for her and she moved lightning fast as adrenaline kicked in. She skimmed the wall surface as she stretched out and leaped for the roof. She knew human things when she saw them, knew it was one of those noisy smelly truck-things humans liked to move around in. They belonged on the ground, not in the sky.

Slymm cursed loudly as she followed her sister and they fell over themselves as they scrambled over the ledge of the building. One floor below them the building shook with the impact, then again as part of the roof collapsed when one of the support beams was hit.

Things were getting _way_ out of hand in the parking lot below.

Seven 

_They fall up the stairs and Sam kicks the door shut just as something on the other side thumps up against the outside hard and insistent. The wards drawn on the door and the sides of the stairwell hold. Sam's face is blank, the way it always is during a hunt when his training takes over. He lays down another salt line, this one fortified with burdock root, fennel and St. John's Wort. They're shit out of luck now, just about all out of options. The stairwell leads to the roof. It's a dead end, one way up and no way out._

_They make it to the roof, Sam shouldering Dean on one side, the duffel on the other. _

_Same bone bright moon overhead, same maroon and black sky. Nothing's changed, and everything's changed. Dad's gone; so's Bobby and his dog. _

_Dean concentrates, tries at least to get Sam out of there, away from there, and that pain in his chest doubles, almost brings him to his knees. He curses to himself, tries again, he'll die trying, he won't let Sam die, not like Dad did, not like Bobby did, and something slams into them and knocks him sprawling. A dark shadow glides over the roof, and as Dean looks up he sees Azazel, and the bastard smiles at him as he puts his hands on either side of Sam's head and the sound of Sam's neck breaking is a small bright sound that puts Dean back down on his knees…_

"Everybody dies, sooner or later," Sam said softly, soothingly. "Dude, this is my life. My choice. You're my brother. You really think I'd bail on you now? You're not alone, Dean. You never were." Sam held out his hand, palm up. Dean stood there, seemingly frozen.

_Come on, bro',_ Sam thought to himself. _Take my hand. Please, Dean. Take it. Take my hand. Please…_

Dean stared at a point on the wall above and past Sam's right shoulder. Sam had just enough time to think that he'd reached Dean, that everything was gonna be okay (well, as okay as this thoroughly fucked up situation could be anyway), when Dean reached out out and grabbed Sam by his jacket front. Dean's eyes flared up bright and feral, and he growled deep in his throat just as the wall behind Sam exploded inward.

Bits of shattered brick stung and tore at Sam's back. He couldn't hear a damned thing as his eardrums contracted painfully and as Dean jerked him forward Sam looked up, and through the cloud of dust and debris what he saw was wrong wrong wrong. Moonlight glinted off windshield glass, blue metal and silver chrome like the front of a cage, and he glimpsed the cab of the pickup truck parallel to the floor and then the ceiling, revolving lazily in mid air, the doors banging open closed and then open again, stuff in the back of the trunk bed flying out---spare tires, clothes, and metal tool boxes – crashing all around him. The world spun wildly around on its axis like one of those carnival tilt-a-whirl rides gone berserk, and everything went pitch black.

_**000000**_

Yep, another cliffie.

Next part's up Saturday.


	41. Chapter 41 Apocalypse, Now

A/N: I stole, I mean, I _borrowed _the title from the movie of the same name. Yep, I have no shame. Also bastardized a quote from "Constantine" – the one about "red delights". Also stole a line of dialogue from "All Hell Breaks Loose", part 2. You'll recognize it when you see it. Did I mention I have no shame? Dialogue from "Salvation" taken from Jensen Ross Ackles Fans website summaries (by Aurelia).

Disclaimer: Kripke owns the boys and Coppola owns the title.

Spoilers: Faith, pre-Pilot

This chapter contains brotherly snark, extreme Winchester angst, cussing, violence and the long-awaited (oh, shut upp!) big bang.

**Dog Eat Dog**

**Chapter 41 – Apocalypse, Now**

**One **

That ringing in his ears subsided a little. Okay. He drew in a breath, then coughed as he inhaled dust and grit, but that was okay too. He ached all over, but Sam figured_ that_ was good. It meant that he was alive. The absence of searing, throbbing pain anywhere in his body meant that nothing was broken. So far, so good.

Sam always thought that one of the dumbest phrases in the English language was "wake up dead." He just couldn't deal with it. Either you woke up, or you didn't. That combination of words just didn't make any sense to him. He'd never heard John or Dean say it, so if they ignored it, he did too, not that he'd ever admit _that_ to Dad.

A vague memory of things flying through the air around him and at him, both in real –time and slow-motion floated across his consciousness, but the images were distant and surreal. During hunts events always seemed to either speed up or slow down; it was a trick the mind played on itself.

Sam opened his eyes and it was one of the few times in his life that he was shocked speechless.

A key ring full of car keys floated lazily in the air right in front of his nose.

The keys tumbled lazily, end over end, slow enough where he could see the embossed _**FORD**_ insignia stamped into the brown leather tag. The keys made a small tinny sound as they shifted against each other on the key ring. Sam reached out a hand, and his fingers shook (no shit) as he poked and prodded at the keys with one outstretched finger.

Sam looked around, and right then and there he definitely got the feeling that _none_ of this was normal. Hell, "Normal" wasn't even in the vicinity of where ever "here" was.

Socks, one sole tennis shoe, pieces of mail (a light bill, a final notice from some collection agency), a crumpled up shirt a hammer and a handful of nails floated in the air all around him. A handful of loose change – pennies, dimes nickels and quarters – hovered overhead, turning end of end in extreme slow motion. A silver Sears Craftsman wrench twirled slowly end over end in the air a few feet away. The air was thick with dust and dirt, but Sam could see the sky through that huge gaping hole that hadn't been there before.

Sam remembered the startled look on Dean's face, the violent jerk as Dean grabbed him and pulled him forward. Sam's stomach dropped when he realized he couldn't see Bobby or his dog. They'd been pinned to the wall right next to him. Sam turned in that direction and froze.

What really got his attention was the truck door panel he was about to face plant into.

Or it was about to face plant into him. He couldn't tell at first.

It tumbled lazily through the air at him, three feet away, at the height of his head and shoulders. It moved slowly enough that Sam could see that the door pins had been sheared off and the window glass was still intact. It hurt Sam's eyes to look at it; the sight of the damn thing hanging there in mid air as it slowly revolved unnerved him.

_Sam?_

Sam got to his feet and just to be safe, stepped out of what he thought was the door's projected flight path.

_Uh…Sammy?_

Dean. Inside his head. Sam looked around, confused. He couldn't see him.

_Dude…a little help here? _

Sam looked directly behind him and reared back in shock.

A candy apple red pick-up truck tilted in mid-air behind him, its cab at a fifty four degree angle, tilted on its right front headlight on the passenger side. One of its doors was flung out, frozen in mid-air, the other door was missing, and debris from inside the glove compartments (that were also flung open) was suspended in mid-air.

Sam stopped and stared. It was a cool special effect. He'd seen the weightless outer space sequences in "Apollo 13" with Tom Hanks. Looked a lot like something out of "The Matrix" with Keanu Reeves. Spielberg would kill to be able to do an effect like that in real time…

Dean chuckled weakly._ You're such a girl, Sammy…_

Sam eyed the truck doubtfully as he edged around to the other side. "Uh, Dean? They're…they're throwing trucks at us." Sam muttered, distracted.

Dean rolled his eyes. "Thank you, Captain Obvious." He sounded hoarse, tired. The hair on the back of Sam's neck rose up slightly just from the sound of Dean's voice. Sam looked down; Dean sat there on the floor. Dean stared at the truck with this intense, slightly wide-eyed expression, as though he couldn't believe what was happening himself.

"Dude," Sam said slowly. "Dean, are you…are _you_ doing _this_?"

"Yeah." Dean looked pale, sickly. He had dark bruises underneath both eyes. The center of his eyes glowed a bright clear yellow, but the rest of him was pale; even his irises were a washed out hazel color. He looked fragile, just like he had in the hospital nearly two years ago when he'd had the first heart attack.

"Couldn't stop it…had to slow it down somehow…" Dean's voice trailed off, then his brow wrinkled up in a frown. "You didn't …my baby's not out there on that parking lot, is she? Bastards better not touch my damn car."

Sam shook his head. "No. We left her at the church."

"Oh, thank God."

"Dean, your heart…man, you think you oughta be _doing_ this?"

"Stopping right now would be _bad_," Dean said, deadpan. "What, you forgot all that stuff in school about bodies at rest and in motion? I don't know about you, Sammy, but I don't wanna get a faceful of Detroit steel any time soon." Dean snorted. "Ain't healthy."

"Oh." Sam stood there and gaped at the truck.

"I know this is freakin' you out, Sam, but you gotta go check on Dad and Bobby. Everybody's gotta move to the stairwell."

"What?"

"Dad. Bobby." Dean moved his head backwards. Sam didn't seem to hear, didn't move. "Dude. They're behind me." The truck's position had changed; the truck bed was now nearly parallel to the floor.

"Huhh…this…this is really _heavy_," Dean grunted softly. "Sometime this year would be nice, Sammy."

No response.

"Sam?" Dean growled darkly. "Move your ass. _Now_."

"Bitch, bitch, bitch." Sam moved.

"Jerk."

John and Bobby lay ten feet away. Bobby's dog growled a little when she saw Sam approach but she tucked her tail and whined a little as she allowed him to come closer. Sam checked Bobby's vitals; they were strong and steady. He'd had the breath knocked out of him as Dean grabbed him somehow. Dean didn't have time to be gentle, and Sam suddenly had the sinking feeling that John and Bobby would think that Dean was on the attack again.

John had apparently been clipped by some flying projectile. He had a small goose egg on his left temple and he lay on his side, eyes closed. He tensed up when Sam touched him and for a moment, just a moment, Sam felt a twinge of fear even as John opened his eyes and looked directly at him.

John sat up and glanced at Dean's back sharply, then over at the duffel bag on the floor and Sam knew he was calculating his move, figuring out how fast he could get to the weapons inside the duffel before Dean reacted. Sam put a hand on his father's arm.

"Dad, he's okay. He is." Sam whispered. John stared at Sam intently, as if he was trying to see if Sam was okay himself. Sam stared back at him, totally open and concerned, and John untensed. Nobody could could fake being that emo.

Bobby raised himself up on his arms and sat up groggily.

"We gotta go," Dean called out. His voice had a wheezy breathless quality that Sam definitely didn't like. "I can't…can't hold this much longer…"

_Hold on, you bastard, hold on._ One more heartbeat, and then another. His heart was made of fragile glass. It jumped and skittered in his chest, and it would take only one good thump to shatter the damn thing into a million pieces.

Then he could rest, but he wasn't finished yet. Not yet.

He felt light-headed but focused. His awareness shifted as he concentrated on slowing down everything in the room. The demons couldn't enter, not yet. There was still a large amount of smoke from the devil's dung in the air.

Dean was on a different plane of reality, and he could barely hear the others as they moved quickly around the room behind him, gathering up the duffel bags and whatever else they'd need.

He was actually kind of sorry about it. He realized that by doing this he was probably screwing Coyote out of his end of the deal. The Old Man probably could have stopped him, fought him, somehow, but Dean couldn't feel any resistance. He could barely hear Coyote's low growl of a voice in his head as the old dog chanted the invocation. Dean didn't recognize the language. The words vibrated around inside him. He was an old empty bottle that some kid had filled up with a couple of pebbles, some loose change, maybe. He felt hollow inside but he didn't really care. He didn't even react as he felt arms around him, lifting him up onto his feet.

He tensed up for a second until he caught the scent…

_Dad…family…blood…_

And let himself be led.He refused to turn around. He kept his eyes on the truck and he held it in place. He was stumble walked backwards into the stairwell, and the door closed in front of him. The light in there was dimmer and darker, and the darkness seemed to drain all the energy out of him. Dean sagged against John and he couldn't keep his eyes open much longer.

A shimmer of white and long blonde hair in front of him, and she smiled at him as she softly kissed his cheek.

_Mom, I won't let them die. I won't…_

The crashing sounds outside followed him down into the dark.

_**Two**_

They crept in ever so slowly. The ones who'd been topside before scented things in the air that could hurt them and they hung back. They weren't fearful, but they were cautious. Several of the more impatient ones burbled and lunged forward over the broken salt lines. Leathery grey skin steamed thick dark mucus from the devil's dung smoke in the air. The humans were so close they could taste them. Four humans and one animal, warm-blooded flesh with all manner of red delights hidden within them, especially that one with the eyes like the Fallen one.

So close they could taste them, and yet so far away, separated only from the horde by a heavy metal door and those anti-demon wards on the front. They sniffed around the edges, searching for a way in, and moved back snarling and hissing when they encountered the wards that had been drawn inside on all four sides and both ends of the stairwell.

They'd been told by the yellow-eyed one not to go onto the roof until he said, upon pain of death. None of them were willing to go the way the witches and the disobedient ones had gone, so they waited with the patience of saints.

_**Three**_

"Hey, bud," John murmured as Dean's eyelids fluttered open. Dad's smile was warm; it even reached his eyes. Dean breathed in John's scent, all sadness and determination.

Dean frowned slightly as he struggled to sit upright, his back against the stairs. Covered with a damn blanket. _Again_. He straightened up as he threw the blanket off. "I'm okay. I'm okay."

John smiled slightly. "I know you are."

Sam sat at the top of the stairs, near the rooftop, while Bobby stood at the door a few feet away. He stared out the small window with his shotgun in his hand and his dog at his side. The smell of sulfur from outside was stifling and shadows and other unbelievable things glided silently past the window. Bobby tried not to stare. He had his game face on.

_Are you strong enough to get everyone out? If you're not, can you get Sam and Bobby out? I'll stay with you, son. I won't leave you. _

John opened his mouth to say those very words and Dean stared back at him, a faint yellow glow in his eyes.

_We'll choose our own exit, our own time. We'll go out together, as a family. _

The vision engulfed Dean, rose up all around him.

John pressed the cold round muzzle of his pistol snug underneath his chin. Dean's body jerked slightly with the ghost echo of the gunshot.

Fourth gunshot. Dean. John. Bobby. Sam.

John froze.

"You can read my mind." It was a simple statement. John's tone was neutral but Dean's shoulders sagged at the blank tone of his father's voice. John was hiding what he really felt. Dean stared at the floor, silent. Still.

"Dad…I…I know I'm not what you thought I was. I'm not what you signed on for…"

John frowned. Was the boy really apologizing to him? For _what_?

"Dean, why would you say that?"

"The times I'd wake up during the night, and you were gone…" Dean raised his head, looked John in the eyes and nodded. "I understand now. I get it."

"Dean, I didn't leave because of you." John fumbled around inside himself, searching for the right words. "I didn't realize how you felt about it. Son, you had Coyote under control. I didn't think…I left because I thought it was right. I screwed up, bud. Plain and simple. You're my son. I love you. Your mother loved you. Nothing is ever gonna change that."

Dean drew back, and that slight motion damn near broke John's heart.

John leaned forward to fill the gap. Dean didn't move. "Dean, we're not leaving you. No matter what, we're not leaving. Why is that so hard for you to believe?"

_Because I'm a freak. And everyone who loves me, leaves me._

Even with everything that had happened, he couldn't say it out loud.

_I'll __**make**__ you leave this time. _

Dean's pupils flashed bright yellow, miniature suns glowing in the darkness. John tried to lift his hand up, tried to speak, and everything faded away.

_**Four**_

_Ah, eldest, _Azazel thought cheerfully._ You are so damn clever. Got yourself caught in a box and you can't get out. And I thought you were smarter than that._

He landed on the rooftop, feather light, with not even his bare feet making any noise on that loose gravel. Those two cat things were around somewhere; they hid as soon as they sensed him circling overhead. Didn't matter. They weren't any threat at all. The others could hunt them down and kill them too. They were still loyal to Coyote, and it was time for a general housecleaning.

Azazel nearly laughed when he saw the anti-demon ward drawn on the outside of the door. He sensed a familiar presence just inside.

If the mountain wouldn't come to Muhammed, then it was time for Muhammed to come to the mountain, or whatever that saying was.

The metal door latch burned his skin as Azazel gripped the door and ripped it off its hinges. He barely felt the pain and he smiled as he flung the door over the side.

"Hello, Sammy. Come on out, boy. I won't hurt you. Much."

_**Five **_

_The three of us, that's all we have, and it's all__** I**__ have. _

Sam faded in lying on his right side on the floor in front of the candle altar. "Dean," he muttered.

_Sometimes I feel like I'm barely holding it together, man. Without you or Dad…_

John sat slumped over on the first bench in the row, semi-conscious, two duffel bags at his feet. "Dean…don't…"

_I'm sorry. I'm sorry for everything that's happened. I've…I've got work to do. _

Bobby Singer sat on the bench opposite John Winchester. "Boy's a total idjit," Bobby thought hazily. It was the last coherent thought he had for a while.

Condie got up, whining. She padded over and put her big black head on Bobby's knee.

_I won't let you die for me, or with me. I won't. _

The doors to the church lifted up and fit neatly back into the wooden frame. Neither Sam nor Bobby nor John were awake to see it.

_**Six**_

"Oh. It's just you," Azazel sneered.

Dean swayed a little on his feet, one shoulder bumping up against the door frame.

Azazel cocked his head to one side and listened.

"Well. You broke yourself didn't you?" That slow smile that spread across his face was just as bright and malicious as ever. "I can hear your heart beating all the way over here, old man. You're too stupid to realize when you're beaten."

Dean just stood there. He raised his head as Azazel approached him. The Demon studied his pale skin, his labored breathing. "Isn't it about time you stopped all this, Dean? Isn't it time for you to die, and stay dead this time?"

"I'm gettin' really sick of your ass," Dean said wearily.

Azazel smiled brightly. "Consistent to the bitter end. That's what I like about you, kid."

Something dark and soft and sharp edged brushed into him then, and Dean could have sworn the touch was light but his skin tore open as the feathers brushed against his skin. He could feel rough concrete underneath his body. He was on his back somehow and he looked up at the wall. There was a large crater in the bricks and he wondered how that got there. He barely felt Azazel's fingers around his neck as he jerked him up on his feet.

And the son-of-a-bitch never stopped grinning.

_**Seven**_

_Sammy?_

Sam stirred a little in his sleep as he felt slight pressure on his shoulder. "Dean…"

_Dude, you need to see this. I want you to tell Dad and Bobby…_

He was back on the roof. He couldn't tell where he ended and where Dean began. The pain receded and Sam could feel Dean in him, next to him, all around him, and barely audible underneath the beating of Dean's heart, Coyote growled low and rough as he continued to chant. Sam could barely make out the words.

Azazel leaned forward, right in Dean's face. Sam could smell sulfur and the faint hint of roses. "Just so you know," Azazel said softly, "after you're gone, I'm going to hunt Sam down. And John. I'm going to hunt down everyone you ever loved, Dean. I'm going to make them scream and beg for death. And you know what?" Azazel's smile was bright, full of good humor, as though he'd heard the greatest joke in the world and he couldn't wait to share it with Dean. "They'll die knowing that you could have saved them from me. They'll die knowing that you failed them. _Just like you always do_."

_Time_, Coyote murmured softly.

Yellow light flared up in Dean's eyes. Sam felt his lips move. "Not this time."

Azazel scowled to himself. This pup's defiance was getting tiresome. He tightened his grip around Dean's throat. At least, he tried to.

His fingers wouldn't work.

He felt warm, flushed. His eyes widened in shock as he stared down at his chest.

He could see his ribs through his skin.

Dean dug his fingers into the soft flesh of Azazel's throat. Sam could feel the slickness of that bronze skin, the tremors as the muscles underneath trembled and shook.

Death uncoiled itself next to his heart. Sam Colt's last bullet came awake for the last time, and it found exactly what it was looking for all along. Every muscle in Azazel's body convulsed painfully as the first pulse of energy snapped his head back, curved his spine into the shape of a bow. Intense white light streamed from Azazel's eyes, twin searchlights that blotted out the yellow of his eyes.

_This is for Jessica, you bastard,_ Sam thought.

The second energy pulse jerked Azazel's mouth open in an impossibly wide soundless scream. He tried to scream, and when he opened his mouth the only thing that came out was light, bright and cold as it streamed out of his mouth, a beam of light that surged skyward.

The very last thing Azazel saw was Dean and Sam Winchester.

"This is for our mom, you son of a bitch," Dean whispered.

Dean and Sam opened their fingers and let go. Azazel fell backwards. He couldn't even scream out. Oblivion swallowed him up.

Sam felt a peculiar sideways lurch in his core as Dean stepped away from him. He glanced down at the body at his feet. Sam felt something loosen inside him. His face was wet, and it wasn't until the first peal of thunder and lightning overhead that he realized it was raining. Some of the wetness on his face was from the rain.

The storm overhead was back in all its glory and fury. Clouds rolled in overhead. Lightning flashed and the building shook with each roll of thunder.

Redd and Slymm came out of hiding. They moved stiffly at first. They glared at Sam as they slunk over on all fours and stood next to Dean. He looked warmly at his brother. He was just plain old Dean then, despite the blood and bruises.

"I love you, Sammy." Dean said out loud. "You know that, don't you?"

"Dean, you did it."

Dean shook his head as he looked down at Azazel. "_We_ did it."

"It's…it's over."

"Not yet it isn't."

"What? No, wait a minute. It's done. Finished. You can come back to the church with me."

Dean shook his head slowly, sadly. "No, Sam. I can't." He stood there with the sisters beside him, and Sam understood. Dean wasn't coming back.

"Dean." Sam's voice was low, desperate. "Don't do this to me, man. _Don't._ You can't do this, Dean. You can't leave me…"

The world around Sam flashed yellow, the color of Dean's eyes.

_Goodbye, Sam._

_**Eight**_

Coyote sounded amused._ Good grief, boy, don't you ever get tired of Sesame Street?_

Dean shrugged._ You don't mess with the classics._

Azazel's body rose jerkily to its feet as Dean manipulated it. Dean walked the body over to the roof's ledge and made it stand there, wings outstretched. He raised its arms, made it motion to the horde to come up onto the roof.

"_Cere…" _Redd shivered. Slymm looked as dejected as a lost kitten in the rain._ "You're going to leave us."_

"No. I'm not." His chest ached. It was hard to catch his breath. Dean didn't even remember how he got down on his knees, but there he was, eye level with the sisters. Redd frowned and tenderly touched the side of his face.

_Easy, niňo_, Coyote murmured. _I'm here. I'm not going anywhere._

The horde came shrieking vertically up the walls as thunder rolled and girders buckled underneath the weight with a low moan of twisted metal. They poured out of the holes in the floor and up onto the roof.

Dean closed his eyes, raised his face to the sky above. For one brief moment he didn't feel pain. He wasn't tired anymore.

He felt free.

_**Nine**_

"Sam? Sammy?"

"D-Dad…"

"Can't get the doors open, John," Bobby gasped. He put his shoulders it as he pushed into them, and the damned things wouldn't budge.

Sam balanced right on the edge of consciousness. "He's not gonna let you," he murmured softly. He tried to slump over and John wouldn't let him. John tightened his grip and pushed Sam upright against the pew.

Bobby was the only one who actually saw it.

The clouds on the horizon churned and boiled. He could barely see the faint outline of the building. Bobby stopped pushing against the door and stopped and stared.

Lightning pulsed the inside the clouds. Once, twice, and the third time was well and truly the charm. The downstroke was the most monstrous lightning bolt Bobby had ever seen. It was half a mile wide, and it was so bright it should have struck him blind right then and there, but it didn't. He staggered back as he put one hand up over his eyes. The ground rumbled underneath his feet, slipping and sliding sideways. Every instinct told him to back away from that small window, but he couldn't.

He could see the blast wave coming. It uprooted trees. The buildings on the street across from the church exploded, bright orange blossoms of flame and debris.

It was too late to run, and Bobby was damned if he was going to do that anyway. He'd had a long full life. Better to spend his last moments on his feet than on his knees, scurrying around like some damn rat caught in a trap.

The blast wave hit the bottom of the church steps and then stopped. It curled up on itself and reversed direction back across the street. The flames blew out. Debris filled the air, but none of it fell near the church.

The sky lightened. Maroon red faded to pale grey, then a soft washed out blue.

_Two suns_, Bobby thought hazily. _There are two suns out there._ That wasn't right. One was in the sky, and the other was on the ground, where that building used to be, a dome of fire that rose skyward at first, then collapsed on itself as it fell back down to earth.

Bobby watched as first one door and then the other slowly fell to the floor.

"Gone," Sam muttered softly behind him. "Dean's gone."

_**000000**_

**_Next chapter to be posted next week._**

****


	42. Chapter 42 Gone Baby Gone

A/N: Apologies to Ben Affleck. Title's from his movie. It's a good movie.

I did mention that I have no shame, right?

This is a transition chapter, relatively short (for me), a bridge between the big bang and the remaining three chapters.

_**Dog Eat Dog**_

_**Chapter 42 Gone Baby Gone**_

_**One**_

They were half a state away and almost eight hours later when Bobby took the lead and decided to pull into the Wayfarer Lodge for the night. John observed the speed limits so as not to attract attention, but Bobby had the feeling John would've driven all night and there was no need for that. After a moment's hesitation John swung the Impala onto the motel parking lot behind Bobby's truck, Sam's lanky frame folded into the passenger side just like it always had been.

On the surface seemed like nothing had changed, but everything had changed.

Earlier in the day they'd stopped at an auto body shop down the interstate, made up some story about kids vandalizing cars on some motel parking lot and had the Impala's headlights and the windshield of Bobby's truck replaced. With what was in the Impala's trunk and Bobby's duffel bags it wouldn't do to attract the attention of local law enforcement, and plenty of cops and first responders were out on the highway, all headed in the opposite direction as they rushed towards what was left of Vashon, Illinois.

Bobby had never seen that many flashing red lights in his entire life. He idly wondered to himself just what "the proper authorities" were going to make of all of this.

Dean's credit cards were still good.

John's face went horribly blank and his broad fingers shook a little as he handled his eldest son's leather wallet. Bobby knew that look. He'd seen it from his time in-country, seen the same look on other faces during hunts that went horribly wrong. Sam was another worry. He stared blankly into space, spoke only when he was spoken to, and was on a ten second delay when it came to dealing with reality. John took him by the arm and led him out when they left the church.

John was in the lead that time. Later he would let himself be led, but right now he was first. It was understandable. It was the pull of family, especially family in trouble, but Bobby was determined that pull wouldn't get anybody else killed that day. He'd block the Impala with his truck if he had to.

They couldn't even get close enough to the Wal-Mart to take a look.

John might have fooled himself into thinking it was a rescue, but as soon as Bobby saw those enormous grey clouds billowing up from that godawful crater in the ground a mile away, saw the flashes of lightning pulsing within the core of those clouds, he knew rescue and even recovery was out of the damn question. Just looking at the damn thing made Bobby's skin crawl, set his teeth on edge. Damn fool dog refused to follow him out of the truck, and Bobby supposed she had more sense than all of them combined.

Well, not all of them. Sam sat slumped in the front passenger seat, his shoulders slumped. His head hung forward and Bobby couldn't see his eyes because of that shaggy hair of his.

The heat was like nothing Bobby had ever felt before in his life. It drained all the moisture from his body as soon as he stepped out onto the street. He started breathing through his mouth without even realizing it. Those half-melted puddles in the street around them used to be cars. Asphalt stuck to the soles of their boots. The street lights above were half-melted blackened stumps.

First Mary and now Dean. The fire that November night over twenty two years ago had left nothing left of that fine woman but a headstone; there hadn't even been enough to bury. Now Mary Winchester's eldest son was probably a handful of fine grey ash carried on the wind. Dealing with death was hard enough. Having a body to bury, making arrangements and such was hard, but in some ways easier too. You couldn't fool yourself that way.

But_ this_…

Bobby froze. He heard the Impala's door creak open, and God help him his finger moved near the trigger of the shotgun he was holding as he took a quick look behind. He expected to see that familiar battered brown leather jacket and those wild yellow eyes.

Sam still sat there, still as death. Bobby could see Dean sliding out of the car and closing the door behind him, that easy-going smirk on his face and that "don't-give-a-damn" walk of his smooth as silk as he moved towards them. The humor in that smirk even reached his eyes.

His wide green _normal _eyes.

Bobby blinked and Dean vanished.

The mind can play some terrible tricks on itself.

This way, with no body, it was easy to fool yourself into thinking that Dean was going to turn up, somehow, somewhere.

You never leave a man behind. No matter what.

Couldn't be helped in this case. There was nothing living in that direction.

John stood there staring at the smoke rising into the sky. For a brief moment he looked like a man who was ready to bolt.

_Don't do it, you damn fool. Don't. _Bobby's left hand tightened slightly on the stock of the shotgun. _I'll cold cock you if you try to get any closer._

A tremor shook those broad shoulders. John closed his eyes and when he opened them again his eyes were calm. John was pale beneath that heavy stubble, hollow-eyed, but he wouldn't break. Not in front of Bobby, but especially not in front of Sam. One son was gone but he still had his youngest to take care of.

When he spoke John sounded normal. Perfectly calm. He could have been talking about the weather. None of it fooled Bobby. "Sam told me…in the car…the Demon's dead. They killed him. It's over."

There was a time to speak, and a time to shut the hell up and just listen. Bobby listened.

"Dean is dead, and it's over."

John stood there staring for another long moment, then he turned and walked slowly back to the Impala.

_**Two**_

Dinner consisted of some sandwiches from the convenience store down the street and a six pack of beer. Sam's went untouched, and Bobby could sympathize; his roast beef sandwich didn't have much taste to it. Might have been the circumstances. His taste buds were probably in a state of shock. God knows the rest of him felt the same way.

The motel room was like countless others they'd ever been in. Horrible faded wallpaper, ratty thin carpet, and that ever-present smell of disinfectant over eau de mildew this time.

It was suitably depressing, the proper way to end a thoroughly fucked up day.

Bobby didn't think he could stand bright, clean and cheerful right now. If it showed its face he'd probably put a bullet in the fucker, and then salt and burn its sorry ass.

He hadn't even tried the beds when they came in. If they were lumpy or smelled bad Sam either didn't mind or didn't care: he lay on the bed farthest from the door, his back to Bobby and John.

Sam twitched occasionally in his sleep.

Condie lay down next to the door next to a now-empty paper plate that had once contained a can of hash. She slurped water out of an empty bowl Bobby kept in the truck and now the big dog was stretched out sound asleep, snoring softly. She had the right idea.

Bobby was a little too wired for sleep just yet. The Wayfarer Motel faced the highway, and the sounds of cop cars, ambulances and red lights flashing past was a constant reminder of what they'd left behind. They didn't have Jack, Jose or Jim around, just Bud and his beer, and that was enough. They had a long drive ahead of them, and driving drunk was not an option.

Sometimes, though you just needed some help not to think about things so much.

Apparently John didn't feel that way. He frowned as he picked at the wreckage of his sandwich. The muscles around his eyes tensed up and Bobby figured what the hell. Wasn't good to keep all that bottled up inside. Better to give him an opening, and if John wanted to lash out at him, then so be it. Sooner it was out, the better.

"It's not your fault, John. Dean knew that."

John shook his head dully. "Don't think he believed me," he whispered roughly. "He never gave me a chance to explain…"

"He loved you and Sam. Couldn't live with himself if anything happened to either one of you. And I think…I think Coyote felt the same way."

John scowled. The look he shot Bobby was dark and pointed.

"Damndest thing I've ever seen. They worked _together_, John. When they rescued me at that motel I thought Dean had gone dark. I tried to shoot him. Coyote stopped me."

John sat back in his chair with a thump. Bobby pulled at the corner of the label on his beer bottle.

Bobby laughed shortly. "I do believe that old dog tried to kill me. My heart felt funny, like he was squeezing the hell out of it. Dean must've told him to stop, and Coyote listened. Thought it was a trick at first. Kept expecting Coyote to come roaring out and take over, pull Dean down for good and eat him up alive, and he never did. I didn't think a Trickster would listen to a human. Those two weren't…" Bobby's voice trailed off.

"Normal?" John's voice had a bit of an edge to it.

Bobby nodded. "Good as word as any. General consensus when it comes to two souls in one body is that the weaker one will_ always_ be absorbed by the stronger. Whatever else you can say about him, Dean isn't…wasn't weak. I don't know exactly what was going on." Bobby shook his head. "Probably never will. It was his choice. His life. That was a no-win situation back there, John, and you damn well know it was. If Dean had done what we'd asked him to one of us or all three of us was gonna die."

John's eyes narrowed dangerously as he leaned forward and put his elbows on the table.

"This couldn't have ended any other way. You can cuss me out, take a swing at me if you want." Bobby said mildly. "If it'll make you feel better, feel free."

"I'll take a rain check on those," John grumbled. Bobby chuckled a little and drained the last from his bottle. The food wasn't getting any fresher, and there was no sense leaving it out on the table all night. Bobby got up and removed the empty bottles. He bagged up the trash and put Sam's food and the rest of the beer in that small half refrigerator by the door.

John was snoring softly when Bobby turned back to the table.

"Come on, you damn fool," Bobby said softly as he tugged at John's arm. John came half awake and it suddenly occurred to Bobby that maybe touching him when he was like that wasn't the safest or smartest thing to do, but it was too late. The beer must've slowed John's reaction time, loosened him up or something, because all he did was grumble something under his breath as Bobby got him to his feet and walked him over to the bed.

It was a good thing housekeeping was a little sloppy; somebody had left a couple of blankets piled on that chair near the front door. John was dead weight, and Bobby didn't feel like any more heavy lifting. He could feel his own energy level slipping downward. He pulled one of the blankets and dropped one over John, and then Sam.

They all had enough shit to deal with in the coming weeks. Bobby's plan was simple: get them back to his house in South Dakota. He'd help them through their grief, provide a roof over their heads, food, and a sympathetic ear. Now was not the time for either Sam or John to be damn fools and try to tough their way through this. They were walking wounded, both of them.

He'd keep a close eye on both of them as much as he could. John could be a damn fool, obsessed with doing things his way, but knowing that the Demon was dead might take the steam out of him. Then again, it might not. Suicide by fugly was something Bobby'd seen before, too.

Bobby gave a mental shrug as he turned the lights out and settled down on that lumpy mattress. Damn pillow was lumpy too. He couldn't wait to get home. There was only so much he could take.

_**Three **_

_**Middle of Nowhere**_

_**New Mexico**_

Found flesh. Found flesh. Oh, Beloved had never _been_ so happy. He hid at first when the sky and the sun overhead yelled and fire fell into the desert. Couldn't go running out there just yet. Better to be cautious. Beloved had led a long life and wanted to keep right on living and being.

The others called him a scavenger, just because he _found_ things. Things were all over the place, things to be found, and sometimes it didn't matter that he went inside houses and found things. A squalling, crying human infant here, a pet dog or cat there.

He followed his nose and found things. Like now. He followed the scents and the breath sounds and a mile away from his burrow he found _this_. Food from the sky. It happened like that sometimes. Usually he didn't bother with anything too big, but this, _this_ was enough to keep Beloved fed for a month or so, at least. One adult human male and two female cat-things, lying on a perfectly round circle of burned black desert sand.

Of course, right now Beloved had a problem.

The male was awake, just barely. Beloved watched hungrily at the sluggish way it moved, but there was still some fight in it, and the male's eyes flashed angrily as it put itself between Beloved and those two females. They were half awake. Beloved could smell the sister connection between them.

They were all sick, especially the male, but eating sick flesh had never stopped him before. Beloved crouched there in the sunlight and waited patiently. He ignored the way the sunlight made his pale skin turn red and blistered. He stayed quiet and watched as the male struggled to stay awake. If Beloved was still and quiet they would probably all go back to sleep again, and then he could gather them up, take them all home with him back to his cool dark cave.

He always hung his meals upside down before he fed on them. The juiciest bits were in the head.

The male sat back, breathing heavily. It could barely keep its eyes open. Beloved's eyes turned silver. He felt his mouth water and stopped himself from moving forward too soon. It wouldn't be long now.

It wasn't until that large black shadow fell over him, blocking out the sun, that Beloved knew he was in serious trouble.

"Mine," Beloved whined softly over his shoulder as he looked up fearfully at the huge black bear standing behind him. "_Mine_. I found 'em. Finders keepers. _Mine_, not _yours_."

Bear huffed as he strolled over. "Well, here, you can have this too," Bear rumbled.

One massive paw upside the head cracked Beloved's skull wide open. Beloved keeled over into the coarse dusty soil.

Dean opened his eyes and blinked slowly.

Black dude.

_Very large black dude. _

Dean felt sand underneath his fingers and bright yellow sunlight on his face. Redd and Slymm stirred groggily behind him.

Alive. He was still alive. They all were.

_Son of a bitch…_

Dean figured it wouldn't hurt if he rested his eyes, just for a little while. His chest hurt and he was so damned tired….

"Bear…" Coyote breathed, a dull glow in his eyes as he opened them again. "You gonna kill me now?"

"That's always an option," Bear growled roughly. "We got some unfinished business, Old Man. Let's go."

_**000000**_

That's the last of "Dog" for 2007. Hope you all have a safe and happy New Year, and I'll post more later on this week.


	43. Chapter 43 Silent Lucidity, part one

A/N: Yep. Late. I know.Sorry. _Still_ don't have internet at home. Not gonna bitch about it anymore; I'm bored with the subject already and you probably are too. I'm still very much determined to post the last chapter of "Dog" as the first thing I post from home, but I'm not holding my breath, so here we go. Gonna spend the next few chapters tyin' up loose ends. First up is notDean.

Lines from "Faith" taken from the episode summaries over at Jensen Ross Ackles Fans (thank you, Aurelia). Chapter title taken from "Silent Lucidity" by Queenscyre. Dialogue in bold italic print indicates television newscasts.

Disclaimer: Don't own 'em, dammit. Oh, and about Bear: Michael Clarke Duncan played an oil rigger named Bear in the Bruce Willis movie "Armageddon." Some kachina take animal forms.

_**Dog Eat Dog**_

_**Chapter 43 – Silent Lucidity, part one**_

_**One**_

There was pain.

And there was a fugly.

There was _always_ a fugly.

Sometimes it was a bear. Huge freakin' thing. Blotted out the sun and the sky when it stood up on two hind legs.

Right now it was a man. Dude stared at him intently, not exactly a friendly look, either, and it was that look Dean didn't like. He was being measured. And studied. He'd been eyeballed like that before, had looked like that himself on hunts. That Look was usually the precursor to extreme violence or exorcism or any other damn thing that was necessary to put the fugly down.

'_cept this time, Deano,_ a sly dark voice whispered in his head, _you're the fugly too, now aren't cha?_

There was something not quite right about this, about waking up in this place, but the illusion of a hunt was familiar, comforting somehow, and Dean clung to it.

His right arm felt funny, tingly, and there was that heavy leaden weight in his chest that flared up a little when he called the gun to his left hand. He narrowed his eyes and slipped his game face on. He'd do just fine as a lefty. John taught his boys to be ambidextrous.

Filling his left hand with the Colt 1911 actually seemed to make the bear dude angry. Dean caught that dark amber glint in those brown eyes. The big bad teddy bear was _pissed_. Good.

Dean pressed his back against those worn stone walls behind him. There was only one way it could come at him now: head-on. That was something, at least. They were in some kind of circular hole in the ground, and it was daylight. Wide open blue sky overhead. Herbs underneath his boots, some of it rosemary and sage by the smell of it, crushed and spread around in some sort of pattern. It all looked pretty damned familiar…

"_Home. I'm home…" _

"_We're not staying, princess," John Winchester growled roughly, "so don't get comfortable."_

Dean blinked at the memory. He could sense something in the air all around him, transparent faces in the golden sunlight. They didn't come too close.

They were afraid of him _now_.

_Been here before…I've been here before, and Dad didn't tell me, he never told me…_

They hadn't been afraid of him_ before_.

_Man up, dammit. Don't you show any weakness. Not now. Don't you dare…_

Dean smirked instead, and that seemed to irritate the giant even more. It was better than good.

"I know what you are, what your family does." Bear stared at Dean, shook that massive head in disbelief. "Damn fool got himself ensouled with a _hunter_. Tried to warn him before. Told him that this…human family _stuff_ was too prickly. Too complicated. I'm not too big a man to say 'I told you so.' I'm not a man at all, so I can say it. _I told you so._"

"Well, aren't you a peach." Dean looked him over and then frowned a little. "Dude, if you're a bear, where the hell does your fur go when you shift? Hate to be the one to break it to ya, but…you're_ bald_. Like a cue ball. Does the phrase 'Hair Club for Men' have any meaning for you at all?"

"I don't have time for your foolishness, _child_." Bear nodded at the gun. "You never did learn how to fight fair. You're still mouthy, arrogant and disrespectful."

Dean's smirk got a little wider. Apparently they had a history Dean wasn't even aware of, and Coyote had succeeded in highly pissing this one off. Oh, well. "Geez, Snuggle bear," Dean purred, "You say the sweetest things."

"Home," Coyote whispered reverently.

"What?"

"Home."

"Home?" Dean shook his head. His aim wavered and when Bear made a slight movement towards him Dean raised his arm and Bear stopped. "This isn't…"

The air close to the ground darkened, and Coyote sat there right next to him. He was movie handsome, unnaturally perfect, his sleek brown coat unmarred by either fly or flea bites. Those wide green eyes were framed by impossibly long dark eyelashes, and even the corners of his muzzle turned upwards in a smirk that was all too familiar. "You're not gonna rest until you find out about Sam, Bobby and John. That's what this is all about, isn't it?"

"Not now," Dean growled. "I'm busy."

"We're dying. We need to rest. To heal. "

Dean didn't answer. He remained focused on Bear and his aim with the gun never wavered.

Coyote lifted one paw, nudged at the side of Dean's leg to get his attention."They're safe. I can show you."

Still no answer.

"You think I'd trick you?" Bear's frown deepened at the sad tone of Coyote's voice. "After all the shit we've just gone through?"

Oh yeah, that was just fuckin' great, they were doin' that fade out thing again, and he hated it, if he had the rest of his life he'd never get used to it. Dean cursed to himself as everything around them blurred into one smeary grayish white mess.

Sense of smell came back first. Family scent, blood scent, and overlaid over that, grief and sadness. He could hear/feel their hearts beating, the shush of blood through their veins, the slow steady intake of air in and out. He hadn't expected to be able to check up on them afterwards, didn't think he would ever lay eyes on any of them ever again. He'd pushed them out of harm's way and hoped for the best. Might have been a piss-poor plan but it was all he had.

Dean opened his eyes and felt his knees go weak.

The more things changed, the more they stayed the same. Crappy motel room. Duffel bags on the floor, one near each bed. No sense in unpacking, or even trying to pretend they'd be there for a while. Family rule. Just passing through, that's all. On to the next town, the next hunt.

Sam sleeping in the bed farthest away from the door. John on his back, nearest the door. He could fool himself into thinking everything was fine, but there were three beds and Bobby occupied the third one. Bobby's dog was awake, and she lifted her head, cocked her head slightly to one side_. Some watchdog you are_, Dean thought to himself, and the dog cocked her head to one side and yawned widely.

The more things changed, the more they stayed the same. Crappy motel room. Duffel bags on the floor, one near each bed. No sense in unpacking, or even trying to pretend they'd be there for a while. Family rule. Just passing through, that's all. On to the next town, the next hunt.

The next fugly.

Sam sleeping in the bed farthest away from the door. John on his back, nearest the door. He could fool himself into thinking everything was fine, but there were three beds and Bobby occupied the third one. Bobby's dog was awake, and she lifted her head as she looked at them. _ Some watchdog you are_, Dean thought to himself, and the dog cocked her head to one side and yawned widely.

Coyote stepped in, shoulder to shoulder to him, held him tight, pulled him back up on his feet. He was suddenly eye to eye with his mirror image: wide green eyes, freckled skin, battered brown leather. He wanted to push the Old Man away, smile tightly and tell him, "I can take care of myself, thanks, don't need your help", but he couldn't. His limbs felt dull, leaden, and his head hurt like a son-of-a-bitch, all achey and lightheaded at the same time. If Coyote stepped away now he'd end up flat on his face.

No salt lines at the windows or doors. Dean scowled. Either they were too tired or had just forgotten. Careless mistake like that could get them killed. Something could have gotten into the room.

He stared dully at the Colt in his hand.

Something already had.

He willed the gun away. His skin felt cold, dry and chapped and he rubbed his fingertips together as soon as his hand was empty, his face twisting momentarily as if he was in pain.

"Let's just go," Dean grated out, and it was Coyote's turn to look startled.

"You got them out. You didn't fail them."

Dean snorted weakly. "Not this time."

"I can talk 'til I'm blue in the face, and you still won't believe me." Coyote rolled his eyes. "They're safe. You protected them, just like you said you would. Stay or go. Your choice."

He wanted to yell. Wanted to empty out all the air in his lungs in one long primal scream. Hell, life wasn't fair, never had been before, so why would it start doing him any big freakin' favors now?

"Let's go," Dean whispered, low and dull. "Go and never come back."

They faded out the same way they faded in, and Bobby's dog wasn't the only one awake to see them go.

_**Two**_

_**Watson County**__** Municipal Courthouse**_

_**5 Miles West of Vashon, Illinois**_

_**Thirty six hours later **_

"Can you identify the man who told you to leave the building?"

**Two hundred twenty one…**

"Sure can. That dude right there."

**Two hundred twenty two…**

"This one. He had such sad green eyes. Gorgeous young man. Oh, if I were twenty years younger he would have been in serious trouble…"

**Two hundred twenty three…**

"Right here. I heard his voice inside my head. He told me to get up and leave. Said nobody else was dying that night."

Hendricksen sat back in his chair, closed his eyes and carefully massaged the space between his eyes with his thumb and forefinger. The beginnings of a mighty fine headache throbbed there, a tiny knot of tension he'd come to associate with Dean and Sam Winchester. Hendricksen didn't even react as Anita Dufresne slipped into the room and sat in the chair survivor #223 had just vacated.

Dufresne looked beat. She fanned the photos out on the table, and her brow creased as she stared down at them.

Dean and Sam Winchester and four other perps stared right back at her. As usual Dean had his head cocked to one side as he looked at the camera, that slightly lop-sided smirk on his face. Sam Winchester just looked plain miserable, his shoulders hunched up as though to ward off a blow from somewhere.

Dufresne shrugged, swept the mug shot photos into a stack and turned them face down. She felt better when she couldn't see their faces. "How many picked Dean?"

Hendricksen's laugh was totally devoid of humor. "All of 'em.. You?"

"Every last one."

"Sam?"

Dufresne frowned. "Less than half. They might not have remembered Sam, but Dean sure did make an impression on 'em." She stared at the pile of photos, then frowned. "They're telling us that Dean Winchester told them to evacuate that Wal-Mart store. Told them to get as far away as possible." Dufresne shook her head tiredly. "They did just what he told them to and all two hundred twenty three of them survived. That means your psycho killer is a hero, Vic."

"He's no hero. I don't believe _that_ for one second. He caused all this somehow." Hendricksen opened his eyes, and that grim look settled over his face once again. "He butchered this town and he made sure there were survivors who could go around saying he's a damn hero."

Dufresne shrugged. "Let's say just for a moment that you're right. That your boy has a totally fucked up version of Munchausen's syndrome. He caused this disaster, and then told these folks to leave just so he could be a hero. Okay, then." She leaned forward, both elbows on the table. "How'd he do it, Vic?"

Hendricksen shrugged. The mulish expression on his face deepened, and Dufresne just didn't give a damn. He crooked an eyebrow at her. "So what are you trying to say?"

"I'm just stating the facts. Official story for the last few days has been that this was an act of God, you know that. We don't have the technology to pull this off, and as far as we can tell, nobody else does either. Nobody's come forward to claim responsibility. How did Dean know what was going to happen? How did he pull this off? What did he use?"

Hendricksen huffed. "When we find the son-of-a-bitch that'll be the first thing I ask him."

The door opened and one of the deputies cleared his throat loudly as he stuck his head and shoulders inside. Dufresne felt a sudden flash of irritation as she turned around in the chair. The lateness of the hour and the lack of sleep was getting to her.

"Ah, Agents?"

The look Hendricksen gave the man was intense enough to blister paint.

"Dean Winchester? We found him."

_**Three**_

This was definitely one of the crappiest motel rooms they'd ever been in. they'd ever been in. There wasn't anything unusual like beer bottle décor or psychedelic silver swirls to distract from the dingy brown paint on the walls and the ratty looking curtains on those dingy windows. Three beds, wooden furniture that had obviously seen better days decades ago, and one dim light bulb set in the ceiling.

If Sam hadn't realized before that this was a dream, he got confirmation when he looked over and got a really good look at his brother. One quick look down at himself, and Sam relaxed a little. He was still twenty four.

Twelve year old Dean sat on the bed nearest the door. He leafed through the Hot Rod magazine in his hands, and that only pissed Sam off even more. Dean always got busy with his hands whenever they were having conversations like these, so he could lose himself in what he was doing and ignore Sam.

They were playing a waiting game, and even though Sam nearly always won, that didn't mean Dean didn't try to outlast him anyway. Dean turned several more pages, the corners of his mouth turned up in a slight smirk.

"You oughta drop that pissyface of yours, Sammy. It ain't workin'," Dean drawled casually.

"You pushed me away. How the hell could you _do_ something like that?"

"Because I'm the oldest, and I know what's best."

"You…what?" Sam stood up, towered over him, and spread his arms wide. _I'm taller and heavier than you, bro'. You don't wanna piss me off._

Dean looked Sam up and down and shrugged. "Yeah. Whatever, dude," he said boredly.

Sam shook his head in disbelief, backed up against the foot of his bed and sat down heavily. He blinked and twelve year old Dean was suddenly eighteen.

"You're acting just like a chick, you know that?" Dean muttered. His back was up against the headboard this time, a whetstone in one hand, his knife in the other. He stroked the knife blade against the stone in smooth regular movements.

Sam stood up again, raised himself up to his full height and leaned over. Dean rolled his eyes, clearly unimpressed. He didn't even flinch when Sam put one hand on his right arm. "Put the knife _down_, Dean. You're not gettin' off that easy."

Dean stilled himself as he glanced at Sam's hand and snorted. "Dude, you don't really wanna _do_ that. I'm armed and dangerous."

"Put the damn knife down. _Now_." Sam gritted out.

"Huh. Emo bitch."

"Macho jerk."

"_All right_," Dean growled darkly. He slipped the knife back underneath his pillow and put the whetstone on that rickety nightstand next to the bed. "What's the damn sense of havin' this conversation? It's over, it's _done_. Did you really think I was just gonna stand by and watch you guys get slaughtered? I did what I had to do, and you can't undo it."

He grunted as he rolled off the bed, pushed past Sam and stalked over to the window. Sam blinked, and yeah, he missed it again. Dean was twenty eight years old again.

"Dad's back. Damn Demon's dead," Dean whispered roughly. "You guys can…" His voice trailed off as his eyes went momentarily blank. "You don't need me around anymore."

"They don't need you like you need them," Dad whispered. Yellow eyes. Dad's face and voice. Demons lie, but then sometimes they don't, and Dean shuddered despite the warmth in the room.

"Dean, look..." Sam saw Dean tremble and reached out to lightly touch him on the arm.

Big mistake.

Dean snarled, deep and low, and slapped his hand away.

"Dude, what the hell --"

"You really that damn stupid, Sam? _Are you?_ I'm not your damn brother anymore. Not his son. That's over. It's done."

Sam opened his mouth to say something, anything, and it was no use. Dean's eyes flashed bright yellow, and then there was no further discussion, he was gone, he was out of there.

_**Four**_

_**Good morning America. This is Diane Sawyer.**_

…_**sources close to the investigation tell us that there are at least two hundred twenty three survivors. So far, no terrorist groups have claimed responsibility. **_

On the road back to South Dakota, Sam talked. John drove and listened.

Didn't take much prodding, or pushing. Twelve miles down the highway from the Wayfarer Lodge Sam opened his mouth and began talking. Before that there was only the rumble of the girl's engine, the blacktop humming underneath her tires. It wasn't enough to fill the silence inside the Impala. The first day John hadn't turned on the radio. No tapes, either. Didn't want to hear Metallica, or AC/DC.

_**Fox News received the videotape from a trucker who claimed that he was unable to enter the town of Vashon, Illinois two days ago. The tape appears to be genuine…**_

John ignored casual conversations, television and radio broadcasts whenever they stopped for gas or food. He spoke when he was spoken to, smiled when it was appropriate, pretended everything was just so got-damned normal while that hollow ache inside him got a little bigger, a little deeper with each passing hour.

…_**dashboard cam from a neighboring Crawford County deputy's car which shows a monstrous lightning bolt coming down from the clouds…**_

"He went on ahead of me, you know? Down in that sewer, back in McCoy." Sam sounded dazed, his voice so soft sometimes John strained to hear him. "He was always doin' that. I asked him how he was feeling after we visited Mom's grave. After we put down that zombie girl. What's dead should stay dead. That's what he told me." Sam frowned, shook his head slowly. "Couldn't understand it, then. Still don't."

_**It's a sign, America. I'm telling you. You better get right. There was evil in that town, and God decided to strike those sinners down, decided to show the rest of us that the time is near. You better get right with Jesus…**_

He knew that Bobby was watching him like a hawk, in that curiously unobtrusive way the old bastard had, and for some reason John didn't mind. It was good to know that someone reliable had his back, and Sam's too. He'd snapped and snarled at Bobby on various occasions, but if he hadn't respected and trusted Bobby he never would have bothered with him in the first place.

"_Hey Dad, it's Sam. You probably won't get this but…it's Dean…he's sick and…doctors say there's nothing they can do. Um, but they don't know the things we know, right? So don't worry 'cause I'll do whatever it takes to get him better. Right, I just wanted you to know." _

Jesus. John actually flinched when he heard the backstory behind _that_ one. Wasn't the first time, but he still felt a twinge of guilt each and every time he heard it. The first time he'd gotten the story from Joshua, after Sam called him, told him about that hunt gone south, and Dean's heart attack. Sam filled in the blanks now: that business with Roy LaGrange, his desperate crazy bitch of a wife, and that reaper. There were plenty of cringe-worthy moments like that in the last two years. Fortunately Sam didn't seem to realize, or care. This was the longest conversation they'd ever had without an argument breaking out.

John gripped the steering wheel a little tighter than he had to. He'd felt frozen inside, and now he was beginning to unthaw. Yeah. That was it. Mingled in with the sadness and regret were other beasties he wasn't exactly comfortable with.

First up was anger. Anger at Dean for bringing him back. Anger at Dean for leaving him, which was kinda fucking hilarious in a totally ironic way when John considered the numerous times he'd ditched Dean, slipped out like a thief in the night, as he'd left the kid asleep in whatever the hell motel room or back cabin they were in, sometimes with only a voicemail message on his cell phone later, or a note left on the kitchen counter.

_**The explosion was non-nuclear. Military experts have told CBS News that no radiation was detected. Extremely high levels of methane and sulfur have been detected, and the epicenter of the blast appears to be a Wal-Mart superstore which was the largest structure in town. The blast crater is a perfect circle half a mile deep. Seismic activity was about six point five on the Richter scale, and the fireball was seen as far away as Chicago, Illinois...**_

Payback was a real hormonal bitch. John knew that. He'd dealt with survivor's guilt over in 'Nam and stateside. There'd been nights when he got shit-faced drunk, but that wasn't something that he made a habit of, because the next morning that nine-hundred pound elephant was still there, along with a head-splitting hangover that settled in nicely right behind his eyes.

So he followed Bobby down the highway and listened to Sam, listened to everything that happened to his two boys over the past two years. There was no sign of Coyote, no hint of anything strange about Dean during all that time.

And Victor Hendricksen? John would deal with _him_ when the time came.

Right now there were two themes to what Sam was saying, and the first was this: that he considered himself to be the weird one in the family. Secondly? Sam was convinced that he'd failed Dean when it really mattered.

That yellow-eyed bastard was dead and gone, so the first point was moot.

Failing Dean was John's burden. It wasn't Sam's baggage to carry.

_**This is NBC Nightly News with Brian Williams.**_

_**Good evening, everyone. NBC News has received exclusive videotape of the disaster that struck the heartland of America days ago…. **_

The sun burned itself beneath the horizon behind when Bobby turned onto the parking lot of the Cheshire Inn. Nights were the worst. Time to slow down, and it should have been a time to rest, but it only meant that without the constant motion of being on the road John had time to think. He wasn't going to wallow in sadness, it wasn't in him, so he turned to the next best thing, to what he'd known for the last twenty years.

It wasn't a conscious decision, and he really couldn't say why he walked around, opened the trunk, and stared at Dean's duffel bag. He could have left it in there all night. Wasn't necessary to move it until they reached Bobby's, but…that just wouldn't have seemed right. He'd brought it in with him last night, and he'd continue to do so until there was no point in doing it.

You never leave a man behind.

John stood there as the shadows lengthened all around him and the street lights flickered on overhead. Sam and Bobby were already inside Room 12B, down the row, and Bobby's dog slunk inside behind them grinning like she knew that she really wasn't supposed to be there.

John couldn't even remember unzipping the duffel. It was heavy olive green canvas, relatively new. Dean's brown leather jacket was folded on top, and John absently ran his fingers down the slick material and into that side pocket. He felt around, found what he was after, and without hesitation slipped Dean's amulet out and put it around his neck, underneath his shirt, against his bare skin.

The mind can play tricks on you, no matter how much you train and prepare. Standing in line at those gas stations and convenience stores John thought he heard Dean's laugh. Glimpsed battered brown leather and wide green eyes just outside his field of vision. It was hard to tell what was real, and what wasn't, but he wasn't going to ignore the signs. He took it all in.

He trusted his gut. He hadn't been asleep when he'd heard Dean's voice in the motel room the night before. Might have been a father's grief, a cruel trick his mind played on itself, but somehow John didn't think so.

Sometimes Death was an ending. Sometimes it was a beginning. He'd find out which in the days to come.

…_they don't know the things we know, right?_

He had work to do.


	44. Chapter 44 Silent Lucidity, part two

A/N: Your reviews for the last chapter really floored me. Thank you all so much for taking the time to read and review! There will be a happy ending, I promise. Italics and verb shift indicates Dean's hallucinations.

Other Notes: Crow Mother is one of the Mong (Chief) Kachina. She is considered to be mother of all Kachina. Dialogue from "Faith" taken from the episode summaries from Jensen Ross Ackles Fans, written by Aurelia.

Disclaimer: I don't own and did not create Dean, John, Sam, Bobby, or Hendricksen, darn it.

_**Dog Eat Dog **_

_**Chapter 44 – Silent Lucidity, Part Two**_

_**One**_

_**Watson County Municipal Courthouse**_

_**5 Miles West of Vashon, Illinois**_

"We'll know more once we do the autopsy," the ME drawled softly. Hendricksen just stared at that well-known face.

He was able to ignore the fact that the body lay naked on that gurney, covered up to its chest by a single white sheet. Eyes closed, no visible rise and fall of his chest, but that didn't mean a damned thing. Winchester was faking, that was all. Playing opossum until he could slip away like a ghost, same as before, that damn smirk on his face.

"No signs of violence. National Guard unit was making a sweep of the area and they found him in the wreckage of this house. He was curled up on his side, no visible injuries." She shrugged. "They thought he was asleep at first." ME Chapel droned on, but Hendricksen didn't paying attention.

He was dimly aware that Dufresne stood over to the side, watching him very very carefully with narrowed eyes. He pulled his cuffs out and handcuffed Winchester's right hand to the metal frame of the gurney before Dufresne had a chance to react. The hand was limp, lifeless, the skin pale and cool but still pliable. Hendricksen jammed his fingers into the pulse point underneath the jaw. Nothing.

When he looked up both women were staring at him wide-eyed.

"Uh…Agent Hendricksen?" Chapel spoke slowly, carefully. Best not to startle this madman. "The man's dead. _As in dead as a doornail_. I can appreciate your zeal, but he's not going anywhere."

"I'll be the judge of that." Hendricksen said mildly. He pulled Sam Winchester's mug shot from his pocket. "Look familiar?"

Chapel leaned forward slightly, and then shook her head _no_. "We've got a few bodies in the morgue."

"This one would still be alive. He'd be posing as a rescue worker, or a sheriff's deputy maybe."

"Haven't seen him."

"I'm going to put two of the deputies on this room. _Right now._" Hendricksen slipped the photo back into his pocket. "No autopsy. Not yet. Hell, you can dress him up in lace and have a tea party if that's what you have in mind. Nobody else comes near this man, do you understand?"

There were drugs that could simulate death. No telling what kind of herbal hoodoo John Winchester had trained his boys in. Dufresne always looked skeptical whenever Hendricksen told him that Sam and Dean were "smart, dangerous and highly trained". She didn't know the half of it. He didn't even wait for an answer as he glared at Dufresne and nodded. "Pull up a chair. Make yourself comfortable."

Three hours later Anita Dufresne excused herself and ducked into the women's rest room on the ground floor. She pulled out her cell phone and her hands shook a little as she hit the first number on speed-dial.

_**Two**_

_**Coyote Kiva - Iskiva – near Oraibi at Hopi**_

…_**what's dead…**_

_He hears it then, a thunderous sound of wings beating the a__ir. His eardrums ache and throb as the air pressure shifts and changes. The rooftop shifts into a mercilessly bright desert landscape, bone dry sand beneath his feet, burning white hot sky above, and the steel grey hide of that damn thunderbird is the only spot of color besides the blood on the sand. _

…_**should stay dead…**_

_Dean sees and understands. It's Coyote's blood. His blood._

_He hefts the blade in his right hand. Nice balance. Looks like one of Dad's machetes, but the handle is curved, made of mother of pearl._

_The damn fugly comes down at him again from above, and Dean swings the blade up and around in a smooth wide arc. _

"_Swing and a miss," the thunderbird chirps, and Dean blinks in surprise. Hell. That's not right. It smiles at him with that darkly handsome face, yellow eyes gleaming as massive coal black wings stretch out behind those broad shoulders. _

"_You're not dying fast enough, boy. __Come and join me down in the dark." _

_It stretches out a hand towards him, and Dean swings the blade again. He feels a jolt that goes all the way up to his shoulder as the blade slices into smooth bronze skin. A sharp electric spark right between his eyes turns everything bright golden yellow…_

He opened his eyes with a jerk and stared.

_Son of a bitch..._

The kiva was bigger, wider, rounder than he remembered. The air was filled with light.

Filled with creatures made of light.

Overhead eagles and condors rode the thermals, swooping and diving over the heads of the others.

Some looked human, some weren't. He could hear voices, sounds just beneath the range of his hearing.

Something on stilts walked by slowly, gracefully. Dean thought at first it was one of those African stilt dancers he'd seen at this festival down in New Orleans once until he realized that the arms were way too long to be human and those long multi-colored feathers wasn't a costume, it was _skin_. It turned its sleek head and stared at him with those molten yellow eyes as it opened its beak and a made a sharp undulating cry.

Mountain lions and buffalo, bears and badgers, horses, wolves and ducks…

One among them was tall, stately. He couldn't see her face clearly when he looked straight at her. Staring off at the side did the trick, and Dean picked up on it rather quickly. Her skin was covered with sleek coal black feathers. She had a head full of thick, bone straight coal black hair that reached down to her waist. She held her red and blue striped robes around her shoulders like a queen at court.

_Crow Mother_, Dean thought. He pushed up against the rough stones at his back, managed to sit up a little straighter. Sitting slumped over just wasn't very dignified in her presence. He squared his shoulders and nodded at her, and she nodded back.

Dean looked over at a far corner and Redd and Slymm lay curled up together, sleeping. He was glad about _that_, at least. Another small victory. He could use all the small ones he could get.

There were other, smaller bears around but if Bear was here Dean couldn't recognize him, human or otherwise. At least he was a familiar face.

A few feet away a river otter sat next to a mountain lion. The otter raised up on its hind legs, cocked its head to one side and stared up at Dean attentively. A gaggle of ducks crowded around nervously, and when the mother saw Dean glance at them she made a nervous sound and pushed them farther back into the group, in the opposite direction. The others carefully moved aside to clear a path, and that was when Dean saw this small bundle of brown fur lying still and motionless on the ground a few feet away.

_Oh, shit…_

Standing up took some doing. His head and body bitched at the change in position, and he had to look down to see if his feet were beneath him. He leaned heavily against the wall and when he pushed himself away and upright Dean figured that he'd fall flat on his damn fool face. He didn't. The kachina moved out of his way as he stumbled forward, all shaky and rubber-limbed like a newborn foal on wobbly legs.

Coyote lay still and didn't move a muscle. His ears didn't even twitch.

_Damn,_ Dean thought, looking down at him, swaying slightly on his feet. _He looks like road kill. Looks like I feel._

Bending over wasn't such a damned great idea. The ground was further away than he thought it was. Face planting was a very real option. Dean knelt down. Carefully. Slowly. His fingers shook as he reached out and touched the Old Man. He was afraid to touch him. He was afraid not to. The back of Dean's nose prickled, and he ignored it. Tears? Oh hell no. Something in the air. Pollen or some other damn thing. Yeah. That was it.

Coyote seemed smaller. His fur wasn't as thick and full as it had been. His eyes were closed and Dean could barely see that sunken chest rise and fall.

"Come on, Old Man," Dean whispered softly. He leaned forward, scooped up that too-light body in his arms. Skin and bones. For a moment Dean expected Coyote to just break apart, dissolve into fluff and dried skin just like those bodies had in that Body Snatchers movie. The one with Kiefer Sutherland's dad, not that first old movie. It was fucking disturbing that all that life and magic felt so light and fragile inside that coarse brown hide.

Somehow he managed to make it back to the wall. He put his back to it, and slid down all the way, his ass hitting the ground in a somewhat dignified thump.

The kachina stood around and stared. They were waiting for something, and Dean barely noticed them. He carefully placed Coyote on his lap, and he couldn't resist it, he stroked the furball on his head and neck.

Coyote stirred and Dean pulled his hand away quickly.

"…hey…" Huh. Dude sounded downright irritable.

"Sorry."

"I didn't say you could stop."

"Ah, dude…awkward…" Dean muttered out loud. He left his hand down by his side.

"We havin'one'a those chick flick moments?"

"Oh, hell no," Dean snapped fiercely.

"Hell no."

"Don't think…I'm gonna be too welcome here," Dean said thickly. Coyote looked puzzled.

"Hunter, remember?"

_Oh._ "You ever hunt kachina?"

"…don't think so…"

"Then it's all good. Nothin' to worry about."

Dean's fingers went to the front of his t-shirt, to the place his amulet usually hung. His fingers closed on smooth fabric and empty air. Gone now, and he couldn't even remember how or when.

"…lost it…" Dean mumbled softly, more to himself than to Coyote.

One more thing missing. His grip on things just wasn't what it used to be.

Coyote shifted his weight a little. "Lost what?"

"Nothin'. What now?"

"They can heal us. They can't fix us."

"Good one, Yoda," Dean murmured faintly.

"You gotta have faith."

"Faith." Dean snort-chuckled. "You got the wrong brother for that one. That's Sammy's department."

"Maybe it's time to have a little faith, Dean." It was Sammy's voice inside Dean's head, and he scowled.

"What'd you say?"

Coyote frowned. "Wasn't me."

"Oh." Dean put his head back against the stone wall. He could barely feel Coyote's fur underneath his fingers again. He looked up and Crow Mother stood right there in front of him. Bear stood on her left, shifting from human to bear, and he never lost that intense look as he stared down at them both.

"Bear dude," Dean breathed softly.

"Yeah?" Coyote grumbled.

"You owe him, huh?"

Coyote shrugged. "Depends on who you talk to. Back in the day."

"Won't have to do anything unnatural to pay him back, will I?"

Coyote looked suddenly shifty-eyed. "Oh. Oh, no. No. No."

"Yeah, right."

The voice was so light and beautiful it made his insides ache. Crow Mother's voice.

_Roamer…Hunter…_

Dean's eyes widened. He made a small soft sound deep in his throat. They were right at the edge of his being, hadn't even forced their way in, and they could have, very easily. They were waiting for permission to come inside. And he didn't want to give it. Didn't deserve it.

Just proved how fucked up he really was.

_You're closed to us. Can't heal you unless you allow us. _

"Not very good at sharing and caring," Dean slurred out loud. He closed his eyes, and they drew back. They shone so brightly he could still see them even with his eyelids closed.

This was the old magic behind the world. Ancient and vast and endless.

_They can heal us. They can't fix us. _

All he had to do was open up and let them in. Surrender himself. Let them see all the things he'd ever done. The failures, the blood on his hands. He felt like bawling. _Damn, when did I become such an emo bitch?_

He was barely aware of Coyote's weight on his lap, the slight in and out of breath pulled in, then let out.

_He helped me…stood by me..._

Dean let out the breath in his lungs in one long shuddering exhale.

_I gave my word…it's all I got left…_

Dean opened up.

_Please Mom, take me with you…please... I'm tired. M' scared. Momma, please…take me with you. _

"Remember what I used to tell you when I tucked you in at night?"

"Angels watchin' over me…you told me…angels are watchin' over me…"

"You guys…don't need me…like I need you…"

"Our lives were destroyed because of a thing like you. You're not Dean. You're not my son…"

"Maybe it's time to have a little faith, Dean."

"You know what I've got faith in, Sam? Reality. Knowing what's really going on."

"How can you be a skeptic with the things we see everyday?"

"Exactly. We SEE them, we know they're real."

"But if you know Evil's out there, how can you not believe Good's out there too?"

"Because I've seen what Evil does to good people."

_I've seen what it did…to me…_

Dean didn't react when Bear leaned forward and brushed his hand against the side of his face. Bear used those massive fingers of his like a paintbrush, leaving long precise stripes of turquoise ash on Dean's skin. He pressed his hand on the space over Dean's heart and left a clawprint there. One long stripe down Dean's forehead, the bridge of his nose and chin. Whatever marks Bear drew on Dean's skin appeared on Coyote as well.

Bear rumbled to himself as he worked.

_Not so broken, Old Man. So much pain, but not so broken after all…_

_**Three**_

He wasn't in the habit of checking caller id before he answered his cell. Hadn't before, didn't see any reason to start now. "Hello?"

"Agent Hendricksen, this is Assistant Director Walter Murphy."

Damn.

Formal right out of the gate. _Know your role and stay in your place, Agent._ Not just a routine request for an update then.

_Fuck._

"Well?"

"It's Dean Winchester."

"Any sign of Sam Winchester?"

"Not yet."

"I don't usually get calls telling me that my people are acting irrationally in the field. Don't enjoy getting calls of that nature, _Agent_. Handcuffing dead men to gurneys gives people a bad impression about the Bureau. You need to get out of the ME's way and let her do her job. I expect you back in the office in twenty four hours. Pack it up and come on home, Victor."

"Sir, I don't --"

"I worked field cases myself, you know. I understand what you're going through. I do. I hated to close cases, but there comes a time when you have to. You know that. Your kid is dead, Vic. You ID'd the body yourself. Fingerprints match. Case closed. End of story. Dean Winchester's dead, and you have other cases. Twenty four hours, Agent."

"Sam Winchester's still unaccounted for. Sir."

Murphy ignored the inflection. "If Sam sticks his head up we'll get him. Tell the locals to keep an eye out for him, and you and Dufresne come on back. This isn't a request."

"Yes, sir."

Dufresne was one ice cold bitch, he had to give her that. She looked him right in the eye after he flipped the cell closed and he had no doubt that if he came out and asked her if she'd made the call she'd be upfront with it.

He didn't ask her. Instead he took the cuffs off the body and stepped back, let Chapel go to work.

When they used the pericardial shears to open up Winchester's rib cage, Hendricksen didn't even flinch.

_**000000**_

Figured I'd end it right here for now. Next chapter will be posted Tuesday. John gets down to the business of tracking down his wayward eldest son, and he's not too thrilled when Sam wants in on the action. Hope everybody has a safe holiday weekend.


	45. Chapter 45 Silent Lucidity, part 3

_**A/N: **_Dialogue from "Dead in the Water", "Wendigo" and "Something Wicked" taken from episode summaries at Jensen Ross Ackles Fans (written by Aurelia). Séance ritual taken from The Supernatural Book of Monsters, Spirits, Demons and Ghouls, by Alex Irvine. Verb tense shifts in the dream sequences. Sorry about that.

Disclaimer: Don't own 'em, darn it.

Summary: Dean dreams while John and Sam hunt.

_**Dog Eat Dog**_

_**Chapter 45 – Silent Lucidity, part three**_

_**One **_

_**Singer Salvage Yard**_

_**South Dakota**_

The only good thing about it was that Sam didn't dream anymore. He'd decided not to. When he laid his head down on his pillow at night everything went black until he opened his eyes the next day. Dreams were the one thing he didn't miss.

He knew that dreams were regarded as the mind's way of dealing with what happened during waking hours. Sam didn't want to deal with it. Couldn't. Even dreaming about him and Dean as kids was painful.

He couldn't dream about Jess. She was dead, too. Dead and gone.

Mom, Jess, and now Dean.

Sam remembered the stricken look on Jess' face when he looked up and saw her pinned to the ceiling. The look on Dean's face was burned into Sam's memory, equal parts of sadness, fear and regret: _I want to stay, but he won't let me._

Leaving wasn't Dean's fault. It wasn't.

The only problem with that was, Dean was Coyote. And vice versa.

Sometimes Sam didn't know which one he was angry with.

Sam didn't miss seeing Dean with those golden eyes, didn't miss hearing that inhumanly low rumble coming out of his brother. Sam was sick and tired of trying to understand, dammit. Might have been misdirected anger on Sam's part, but he felt that Coyote had taken Dean away. Coyote, not Azazel.

Sam wanted Dean. He wanted the Dean Winchester he'd known all his life, that cocky, bossy smartass of a big brother. He wanted his brother back, the one who loved him, bled for him, and protected him every which way he could. He wanted _Dean_, not some golden-eyed trickster god who got his jollies tricking and killing people.

Sam didn't eat very much. He came to the breakfast table because Bobby and John expected him to. He sat there and picked at the oatmeal or bacon and eggs that Bobby put down on the table in front of him. He did the same thing at dinner time.

He kept his head down and deliberately avoided eye contact unless he absolutely had to. For once he was glad that Dad was Dad. John didn't say much to him. No chick flick moments, and for the first time in his life that suited Sam just fine. He'd opened up in the car on the way in to Bobby's, but there was so much going on inside Sam had to let it out somehow. Now that they were staying in one place for a while, Sam went back into his shell.

Daylight hours were the hardest. He kept expecting Dean to come sauntering up to him with that smirk on his face. Sam kept expecting Dean to pull up a chair at dinner. Didn't happen. Wasn't gonna happen.

_Being left behind doesn't feel so good, now does it, Sammy?_

He was collapsing into a black hole, folding in on himself. Sam briefly thought about slipping away, out of the house. He could make his way to the FBI in Washington, show up at Hendricksen's office, and turn himself in. Then he'd set the record straight about Dean. He'd make them see. "My brother was a hero," he'd say. "You don't know him. You don't know what he did."

And he knew they wouldn't believe him.

_Dying's easy, Sammy_, he could hear Dean drawl. _Living's hard._

_And you took the easy way out, you bastard,_ Sam snarled back.

Imaginary Dean shrugged carelessly. For a moment Sam could imagine a quick flash of pain in those green eyes, but it was gone just as quickly. _Yeah, whatever._

Sam was hurting and he wanted it to stop.

He got the idea a day or so later. The answer had been literally staring him right in the face.

Dad made a deal for Dean.

So…why couldn't Sam make a deal for Dean?

He had his laptop. And Bobby's books.

Time to see who or_ what_ was out there.

_**Two**_

The smell of the fugly burning isn't so bad. Smells like charcoal, sage and cinnamon, and it almost smells nice, especially since it means the silver rounds he's pumped into the damned thing are burning their way inside that scaly grey hide, and that's one ghúl that's _not_ getting back up again.

_Ever._

Police sirens wail and warble in the distance. Shagging ass would be a good idea, and he wants to, he really does, but his body's not cooperating right now and it's all he can do but sit there with his back against the tree in the Wachowski backyard and breathe through his mouth. His chest hurts.

And he can't feel his legs.

Dean sits there as several deputies ease through the gangway into the yard with their guns drawn. They come at him sideways, so they're not easy targets, but it's all wasted effort because he can't move his right arm and his Colt is in the grass just out of his reach. Anyway, he's already killed the ghúl, so why the hell would he even take a shot at some cop? They think _he's_ the threat, of course, and that minor flash of irritation takes his mind off the pain, at least for the moment.

Sheriff Wachowski's not here, not yet anyway, but it's a lead pipe clinch he's heard the radio call about shots fired at his house and when he gets here there'll be hell to pay. Last time Dean saw the good sheriff had been at the town limits: "We don't need trash like you in our town, boy. Time for you to move on."

Yeah, right. Like _that _was gonna happen.

Wachowski's wife and daughter stopped screaming several minutes ago, which was good because all that damn noise was getting on Dean's nerves. Ironically enough he didn't mind hearing the screams when he pulled the Impala up to the house and jumped out and ran through the gangway to the backyard. Screaming was good; meant that they were still alive and he'd gotten there in time. Things got a little hectic after he jumped the fence into the yard but after a few well-placed shots in the back the fugly rightly decided Dean was the greater threat and decided to go after him instead.

The sun's shining overhead and the thing on the ground looks like something out of a deepest darkest nightmare. The cops are all wary and wide-eyed and cautious as they stare at the crispy critter. Flames roll over the ghul's skin quite nicely as it burns, all black and charred around the edges, and Dean still can't feel his legs.

The deputies point their guns at him and his head hurts and he can't move his arm.

Dean sits there and watches the thing burn from the inside out and he thinks about what Sam's doing at Stanford right now. Dad's two states away, and Dean wonders how long it'll take him to realize that the hunt went south, even though Dean got the fucker, nailed it to the wall right enough. He wonders how many days will go by before John realizes that he hasn't heard from his eldest son, and how many more hours after that before John gets pissed off because Dean's not answering his cell.

Dean wonders which prison they'll put him in.

His side feels wet and slick, and hell, that can't be good. He's glad he didn't wear his leather jacket, is still a little pissed that his black fatigue jacket has all these rips and tears in the back and side. Must have been some kind of poison on the bastard's claws, because he starts shaking uncontrollably, small tremors at first, but then his muscles shiver and quiver so hard it makes his teeth rattle. Cold wraps itself around his body like a heavy wet blanket and it seems like the world is just pulling away from him, getting all gray and soft and fuzzy around the edges.

Dean has just enough time to wonder if they'll sell the Impala after they impound it before everything slides into soft thick whiteness…

_They can heal us_, that rough voice whispers inside his head. _They can't fix us._

He dreams of running on four legs. He's strong, powerful. He could run like that forever, yipping and howling joyfully underneath the bright yellow moon just for the pure bloody hell of it. He slips through the dusty rocks and tall grass and over the hot desert sand like a ghost.

He steals things sometimes. It's nothing personal, just the way he is, yeah?

He ghosts up the side of that mountain to steal fire and later on "borrows" a herd of cattle to feed those two-leggers during the long harsh winter. He's grown kind of fond of them, especially the little ones and the females, and he doesn't know why.

He remembers the stunned looks on the faces of the people in the village when the search party came back one day with the remains. A gnawed rib cage here, a skull there. Just enough flesh left on the bone to identify who they were in life. Some of the bones were small.

Kids. And babies.

So he goes off and kills the critters that are responsible, and they're special beings, too, things that might be more like him than he'd care to admit.

He deliberately ignores thoughts like that.

He tries to pretend that it's because he's a loner and he doesn't play well with others. One of his nicknames is First Scolder. He's loud, arrogant and disrespectful to the other First People, and he's damn proud of _that_.

He watches the two leggers and their families and gradually becomes aware that there's something missing in his life. Of course, none of this stops him from being, well, _tricky_. People die sometimes as a result of it, and he tells himself that it was_ their_ choice,_ their_ fate. All he did was set up the situation and sit back and watch. Nature of the beast, don't you know.

Later on after the deep cold of winter breaks up in the mountains he decides to change his shape, go two legged himself, just to give it a try. He's curious. He walks over to the edge of the lake and looks at his reflection in the water, sees broad shoulders, freckled skin, and wide green eyes. Something rustles in the brush behind him and he knows he's too late even as he turns around. Something wicked sharp and bright splits the air around his head and everything goes red then pitch black.

Dean sees blue sky when he opens his eyes again. His head and shoulders are propped up on a couple of pillows facing a large window. Nothing but golden sunshine out there.

He can barely feel the bed sheets pulled up over his chest. His body feels heavy, like he hasn't moved in years, and his head's not much better. He makes a soft disgusted sound deep in his throat as he blearily focuses on the pale green hospital gown he's wearing. Green is definitely_ not_ his color.

Nobody's around, so he decides to get his shit and git. Literally. He flexes his wrists and ankles. No handcuffs or restraints. That's the good news.

He can't move a muscle otherwise. That's the bad.

The sound of that metal chair in the far corner being dragged across the tile floor to the side of his bed in front of the window is as loud as nails drawn across a chalkboard, and just as unpleasant. Dean doesn't turn his head away, he can't, and he's not surprised when the chair is slammed down next to the bed and Sheriff Wachowski plants his ass on the seat. The older man's broad ruddy face is still set in that perpetual frown of his, and he looks at Dean like he's just discovered some new species of bug that he's not sure whether to stomp or just brush it away with his foot.

_Oh yeah, here it comes,_ Dean thinks hazily. _Told you to leave, son. Gave you a chance, and what did you do? You came right back in my town, even after I threw your white trash ass out. We're gonna throw you so far up under the jail they'll have to pump sunlight to ya._

Wachowski stares at Dean, a long appraising look, and then he shakes that grizzled head of his. "You look like trouble, boy, you know that?" he says softly. "Kid playing at being a man. Drifting around from place to place. God only knows what the hell you are. That stuff we found in the trunk of your car," Wachowski shakes his head. "Nine kinds of crazy. All of it."

There's a ten second delay from reality, and when Dean realizes the Impala's trunk has been breached his stomach lurches painfully.

"But…" the older man shakes his head again, "my family's alive today because of you. I ran your ass out of town, and you came back anyway. You came back, and you killed the thing that was after my wife and my kid."

Wachowski bows his head as he rubs his palms together. "I didn't believe…" and his voice trails off as he forces back a sob. When he raises his head again his eyes are wet. "I nearly lost my family today…I can grow old with my wife and my…my little girl will grow up, have her own family someday." His voice cracks around the edges, brittle as glass. "We'll be able to see that, because of you."

By this time Dean isn't paying any attention. Some kind of black mist rises up from the pores of Dean's skin, into the sunlight coming into the room. He can see images in the mist, large black wings, murky yellow eyes, distorted dog faces. Black eyed chimp faces, and jagged teeth. The mist dissolves as soon as the sunlight hits it.

He feels lighter somehow. That pain in his neck melts away, but he can't move.

This time he doesn't want to.

This is trippy stuff. Hospital painkillers. Morphine or some other damn thing. That's it. Has to be.

Dean decides to roll with it.

Andrea Barr's voice. Dean feels the softness of her lips as she goes up on tiptoe and kisses him while Sam and Lucas stand nearby, grinning like idiots. "You saved my son," she whispers gently. "I can't ask for more than that."

Dean blinks slowly. A low bass rumble fills the air all around him. It sounds like a voice chanting words he can almost make out.

"You saved us. Me and my brothers. I don't even know how to begin to thank you." Hayley kisses Dean gently on the cheek and tells him, "I hope you find your father."

"You said you're a big brother?" Michael looks up at him, and Dean feels a little sad. Young kid shouldn't have to deal with horrific shit like this. No kid should have to.

"Yeah."

"You take care of your little brother? You'd do anything for him?"

Dean turns and glances at Sam. Not so little. Not any more, but he always will be. "Yeah, I would."

"Me too. I'll help."

Other voices, other times. Other places.

_We would have died if it hadn't been for you, mister. _

Different faces, men, women, kids, all saying the same thing – _thank you, thank you so much _--- and makes him feel uneasy. He's never been able to just smile and accept a compliment. It always felt…_wrong_ somehow. He wants to say something smartass, something snarky in response, and he can't think of a damned thing to say.

So he just lays there and listens, and he sees the kids growing up, sees people going on with their lives, lives that would have been cut short horribly if he hadn't been around.

_This is for our mom, you son of a bitch…_

He glimpses soft golden hair, and the fingers that stroke the side of his face are warm and gentle.

"Mom," Dean breathes softly. Sleep wraps around him now, all warm and soft around the edges. Dean sinks down gratefully, and as he drifts off he wonders how he could have forgotten all of that.

_**Three**_

_**Singer Salvage Yard**_

_**South Dakota**_

They'd been home less than two days and John and Sam were already up to something.

Bobby watched and waited.

He had a place for everything, and everything in its place. Bobby wasn't in the habit of throwing away anything. There was a box of silver ammo neatly tucked away under the cushions of that old oversized easy chair that Rumsfeld had been so fond of sneaking a nap on. A small burlap bag of Talmudic amulets tucked away in that low wooden bookcase right next to the window.

Having stuff around and knowing how to get to it quick fast and in a hurry could mean the difference between a few minor cuts and bruises and wearing your guts on the outside_. Mi caśa eś su caśa_, and he didn't even have to say it. If he didn't want their asses under his roof he never would have allowed them in.

It was reassuring to see John and Sam separately pretend that they weren't up to something, but it was worrisome too. Bobby had to grudgingly admit that while he could keep an eye on 'em while they stayed with him, but God only knew what kind of trouble those damn Winchesters were gonna get into once they left his place.

Sam surfed the internet constantly on his laptop, while John quietly sat and leafed through his journal.

Bobby smiled to himself a little when the books he'd stacked up in the hallway down the way from the kitchen ended up in the living room. Sam divided them up into four different stacks and was going through the stacks with a look of single-minded determination that was frightening on such a young face.

Several hours later John jiggled the Impala's keys as he walked past Bobby and muttered, "Goin' into town to pick up a few things. You need anything?"

That was a revelation in and of itself. John Winchester actually trying to be civil. Maybe it _was_ the end of days.

Bobby almost regretted threatening to shoot his stubborn ass last time.

Getting the mugwort, sandalwood, cinnamon and elecampane was no problem. No altar cloth, but that Finding Nemo placemat turned blank side up would work just fine. John didn't appreciate the irony of that because he'd stopped noticing Disney movies after the fire in Lawrence, over twenty two years ago.

He bought the placemat, the black and white candles and that small glass bowl with one of Dean's credit cards.

At Wal-Mart.

Poetic irony was a mean-spirited bitch in heat.

By the time John got back Bobby's truck was gone. The dogs lazed around the yard, dozing in the noonday sun. John parked the Impala next to the house and hefted the bag with the goods inside. He strode deeper into the salvage yard until he saw what looked about as good a place as any. He put the placemat on the ground face down, and went to work setting up.

Dean's leather wallet was carefully laid on the center of the cloth. John placed the candles just so, black white black all around, in equal number. After he lit the last one he felt a chill claw its way up his spine. No going back from this, one way or another. He could pretend this was just another job, but he knew it wasn't.

John took a small pinch of cinnamon between his fingers and stood there for a moment, blinking in the sunlight. He thought of Mary laughing, beautiful golden haired Mary. He thought about Dean, smiled as he recalled how his four year old son would giggle shyly when John picked him up and ruffled his hair with one broad hand.

John leaned over and sprinkled the herb over one of the candle flames, and when he spoke the words out loud his voice was clear. Rock steady.

_Amate spiritus obsure te quaerimus. Te oramus, nobiscum colloquere, apud nos cicitua._

John stood there.

Nothing, thank God.

Dean hadn't shown up, but someone else was waiting.

"Sam? Sammy?"

John expected antagonism. Expected Sam to come striding out from concealment, his chin thrust out in that stubborn mulish way he did so well sometimes. John could have dealt with anger, resentment. Rage, even. Just went to show how fucked up he was. Anger and shouting felt safe and familiar.

Sam didn't do any of that. What John saw was worse, and he had a harder time with it.

Sam had his head down as he stepped out from behind one of Bobby's rusted hunks. His head was down and the expression on his face was raw, vulnerable. Sam looked every bit of ten years old, horribly young, his entire body rigid with tension. He looked lost, as if he totally expected John to say no to whatever he was about to ask, and that rebuff was the proverbial straw that would break Sam's back.

"Dad, please…I want in on whatever you're planning." Sam stood there, shoulders slumped. He twisted his hands together in a wringing motion, and John was pretty sure that Sam wasn't even aware that he was doing it.

"Sam…I just…I want to find out for sure, okay? You don't have to do this. I know you feel responsible. I know you think you failed Dean. You didn't."

"That…that doesn't make me feel any better, you know?" Sam smiled weakly and the gesture looked more like a grimace of pain. He continued to wring his hands and he stopped only when he looked down, saw what he was doing and then made a conscious effort to stop, to put his hands down by his sides.

John stepped forward. Ordinarily he avoided emotions like the plague, but this time he could feel the pain rolling off his youngest son in waves.

_Let's go, Dean grated out softly. Go and never come back…_

Sam stared at the ground next to John and he didn't raise his eyes until John put one hand lightly on his arm. Sam didn't flinch.

"Sammy…Dean might not…I don't know where he is…_how_ he is right now…"

"What are you saying?"

"He might not …look, I'll handle this, Sam."

Sam stiffened. "Like you handled everything else, huh, Dad?" Sam's expression turned stubborn, but something was off. This wasn't anger, this was a desperate need instead. Sam might have meant for the observation to come out biting and sharply critical. It wasn't. The sharpness was dulled by pain.

Sam's broad shoulders began to shake, and John stepped right up to him, threw his arms around him and held him up.

_He needs his father, you damn fool. _

"We'll do this together," John murmured softly into Sam's hair. "As a family, Sammy. Together."

_Please,_ John thought to himself, _let that be a promise I can actually keep._

_**Four**_

He's careful to stay concealed in that thick curtain of underbrush in front of him. The sunlight feels good and warm on his skin. He's hunting now, mapping out the lay of the land, keeping a low profile until he knows exactly who and what he's dealing with.

He remembers stretching out on that twin bed in Bobby's spare room. He closed his eyes as he burrowed into his pillow, took one deep breath, maybe two, and when he opened his eyes again he was in this place.

Voices from below. Female, maybe. Two different voices. Something not quite right about them, and John shakes his head a little as he moves towards the sounds. He keeps low so whoever this is can't spot him. Rocks are scattered here and there, big enough to sit on, and it's a perfect place to watch from concealment for hours. It's obvious he's not the only one who ever lurked back here.

The soil is sandy and coarse, covered with clumps of grass here and there. He pulls a clump of grass up and examines it. He hears laughter again, and John freezes. He recognizes the third voice.

Dean.

It's sad, totally fucked up, but true. He can't remember the last time he ever heard his eldest son sound that happy.

John squats down behind a small opening in the brush and looks out at the other side. He subconsciously picks up on all the details, the bright blue of the lake water, the way the mountains loomed in the distance, but his attention is riveted by the young man sitting on the blanket that's spread out on the opposite side of the lake.

_He's alive. My boy's alive. _

John grins. His face cracks like dried clay baking in desert heat. It's not something that he's used to, but right now he doesn't give a fuck. His breath hitches past that sudden lump in his throat. They'd lost so much… Mary, Jess, Jim Murphy, Caleb, others he'd known and cared for over the years…

John's still grinning like an idiot as he wipes his eyes with one hand.

Dean's cross legged on the blanket, barefoot, wearing a blue and white plaid shirt and faded jeans. John's never seen him look so happy. The lines of Dean's face have softened, and his eyes are bright and green. Every line of his body is relaxed, at ease.

_God, he looks so much like Mary,_ John thinks to himself. And he chooses to ignore the way the corners of his eyes go wet.

There's a bit of a breeze but it's blowing upwards, away from that small lake below. Otherwise John has no doubt that he'd find himself with a combined weight of about three hundred pounds of hissing feline whatsis in his lap, despite the heavy brush concealing his position.

The woman on the blanket next to Dean is half human, half feline. That long tail of hers swishes through the air lanquidly. Her fur is sleek, auburn, and her pointed ears twitch a little. She's right in Dean's personal space, one clawed hand loosely draped over one of his broad shoulders, and he bows his head, closes his eyes and slowly rubs his cheek against hers.

The other cat woman is smaller, younger, less sure of herself. The frown on her face eases as Dean puts one arm around her and draws her close. She closes her eyes and leans into his touch and she purrs so loudly that John can practically feel the vibration.

Two years ago, a lifetime ago, John and Dean might have hunted them both down without hesitation, given cause.

The weight of the pistol at the small of his back waistband is comforting, heavy. John hadn't really noticed that before, but now he notices the extra weight in his clothes. Apparently his dream self came prepared. He runs his hands through his pockets, finds that silver flask filled with holy water in the right pocket, Mary's rosary in his left. His Kershaw knife is in his right boot, and the knife sheath under his left jacket sleeve is loaded and ready to go.

And it's wrong, all wrong.

The only thing that feels right is the weight of Dean's amulet underneath his t shirt, against his bare skin.

He's not here as a soldier. Or a hunter. He's Dean's Dad. That's all.

That's more than enough.

"Huh. I didn't think you'd come," a low deep voice says quietly.

Coyote sits on the rock over on John's right side. He's a mirror image of Dean, and this pair of wide green eyes has that mellow golden glow in the center. Coyote notices the way John's entire body tenses up, and he chuckles.

"Does the way I look _bother_ you, Papa?" Coyote tilts his head to one side.

John hooks a finger around the leather cord of Dean's amulet, pulls it up all the way out from underneath his shirt. "You gave me this. _You_. Not Dean. Why?"

Coyote shrugs. "Why not?"

Something large and black sits just inside his field of vision, on the left. John moves his head just enough to take a look. Huge bald-headed black dude one minute, gigantic black bear the next. He forces himself to stay still. If they were going to rip him apart they could have done it by now.

The corners of John's mouth turn up in a slight smile as he turns to look at Coyote again. "I didn't come here to play games with you."

"Damn, did you ever come to the wrong place. Don't like tricky? Too bad." Coyote smiles slyly when he sees John's right hand close up into a fist. "It's what I do."

"I want my boy back."

"Gee, I don't think he _wants_ to come back. He's not exactly beating a path to your door now, is he? He's got a home now, a family, and it doesn't include_ you. Or Sam._" Coyote nods at the peaceful scene down below. "Those two will never leave him. He's happy, _really_ happy, for the first time in his life. You'll just remind him of what he had, what's over and done with. Why can't you just leave him be?"

John's jaw sets in a stubborn line. "Because he's_ my_ son," he grits out harshly.

"He was Coyote long before he _ever_ became your son."

"Past life doesn't matter. He's _my_ son," John growls.

"You don't really mean that." Coyote shakes his head, rolls his eyes. "First time Dean shows the yellow of his eyes you'll change your tune. You hunt down and kill things like us,_ remember_? Haven't forgotten _that_, have you, Papa? I've seen your work. I don't trust you."

"I need to talk to him. I need to hear this from _Dean_, not you."

"Nope. Sorry. Not gonna happen. Don't let the door hit you on the way out."

John woke up with a jerk, eyes wide as he stared up at the cracked ceiling above him. He could still smell the lake water. The air in the room was cool, and maybe it was a trick of the mind, an illusion, but his skin felt warmed by the memory of bright sunlight.

It was a dream. He could chalk it up to that. His mind was still playing tricks on him.

Then he looked down and saw that clump of grass and soil clutched tightly in his right hand.

_**Five**_

_**Middle of Nowhere, New Mexico**_

She snuffled along the ground, blowing up clouds of dust and dirt as she went. The night air was cool against her thick greenish-gray skin and the moon overhead rode high in the sky. She never went out in the daytime. Too bright, too warm.

A day ago she'd been curled up in her burrow and she'd gotten one of those visions she sometimes had, about the others. Each had gone their own separate ways, but sometimes she still picked up flashes, impressions of what was happening to them as seen through their eyes.

The one that called himself Beloved was dead. He wasn't the only beloved. They all were. They all had been. She remembered being chained up in that basement after they came into the world, remembered the way the two big hairless ones stared at them. "They're still our children," the mother one said. "We have to take care of our children."

The father one was mean. She stared at him and she'd gotten the picture in her mind of what he wanted to do to them. He wanted to hurt and beat them, and the mother too. But the mother wanted her babies with her so down in the basement they went, her and her brothers and other sister. Chained them to the walls, gave them scraps.

Mother took care of her children. Father wasn't their real father. He'd come in the night and laid down with the mother one several times, and he never came back. Most of the beloved had his silver and black eyes.

Came the day that the false father staggered down into the basement drunk, and he came a little too close. She couldn't remember which brother or sister grabbed him, but they were hungry that night, and father was flesh. He tasted sweet.

That had been a long time ago. There had been horses in the streets. She knew what they were because they ate a few of them after they left the basement. Now there were more of those big metal things around, and they weren't good to eat, not at all.

They had to make do with whatever they found.

She wrinkled her nose up as she sniffed and pawed at Beloved's bones. There was still plenty of meat on the bones, even though it was dried up, almost mummified in the sun. The flesh was too nasty to eat. Even the animals wouldn't touch it.

She reared back as she caught the other scent. Damn kachina. Big, bear-like. Too powerful for her to take down. It was best to leave them alone. Beloved had been in the wrong place. He got stupid, and he got killed. No great loss.

The ground still smelled like sulfur but she could still distinguish one scent from another. There were three more. Two females. Feline. Weak.

It was the male that was interesting. Two-yet-one. Weakened. Familiar enough. She stood there trembling as the memory came clawing its way back up to the surface.

She'd been hungry, and so had her babies. They had to eat, that was all. This one stopped her from eating that night. He hurt her, almost to death, and then he'd tracked down her nest and killed all her young ones and her brother mate inside.

Sometimes he had two legs, sometimes he had four, but he always had green eyes with that yellow glow. The others had found her dazed and bleeding in the mountains, and they told her the killer's name, told her not to forget, because names have power.

She remembered his name. Coyote.

She snarled as she backed up. Her long tongue unfurled and she bared her long sharp teeth. First she had to get the others, and they could track him.

Then they could all feast.

_**000000**_


	46. Chapter 46 Every Day Is A Winding Road

Computer problems plus Real life equals Major suckage.

Well, enough of _that_. The show MUST go on…

A/N: This is for Jenna. You wanted Happy!Dean, so here he is. Sorta. (Be _afraid_, grasshopper, be_ very_ afraid. Ya know I'm _still_ evil.) Chapter title taken from the song by Sheryl Crow.

Summary: John and Sam gear up for the ultimate road trip; Dean has a few good days.

_**Dog Eat Dog**_

_**Chapter 46 – Every Day Is a Winding Road**_

_**One**_

_**Singer Salvage Yard**_

_**South Dakota**_

_**Later on that same day **_

Something was coming. Sam could feel it. He leaned against the chain link fence on the far side of Bobby's property and stared up at the bright blue sky. That didn't reassure him. Bad things didn't always come in the dead of night.

Actually? It was kind of anticlimactic.

No flames, nothing spectacular, just an amused dry chuckle that made the hair on the back of his neck stand straight up painfully. He squared his shoulders and tried to look bored and casual, like meeting up with demons was something he did nearly every damn day of the week, for God's sake.

He looked at the demon standing in front of him, and the first thing that came to mind was John-Boy Walton's grandfather. Or that actor from that movie, "Cocoon." Wilfred Brimley.

This particular hellspawn looked like a little old retiree whose missus had sent him out to the store for some prunes or grapefruit juice or something. It wore a green and purple striped polo shirt that hung loosely over that big fat belly.

Sam squinted. Were those tan Dockers? Maybe so. That thick white mustache was a nice touch.

"So _you're_ what all the fuss was about." It stared Sam up and down. "Not what I expected," the demon added mildly.

Sam snorted. "I could say the same thing about you."

"What? Oh, you mean those old texts?" It smiled and spread its arms wide. Sam couldn't help but be reminded of a carnival barker on the midway trying to hook passers-by in with his voice. "I am called Agares. And lo, I appear in all majesty and unholy splendor, riding a crocodile and holding a hawk."

Agares shrugged. "I know my audience. I can change with the times. Anyway, I didn't want to scare you, Samuel." Behind those silver rimmed glasses its eye sockets went black as pitch for a second, then changed back to that mild normal brown. "Do you mind if I call you Samuel?"

Sam didn't answer.

Agares scowled. "Just trying to be civil. No need to be rude."

"I didn't summon you," Sam snapped.

"Well, in a way, you kind of_ did_," Agares said pointedly. "All that rage and sadness and want. I couldn't just ignore all _that_, now could I?" It tilted his head to one side and placed its left palm flat over the space where its heart would have been. "Oh, I wept when I heard your sad tale. It tugged at my heartstrings, it did."

Bastard.

It steepled its hands together and leaned a little in Sam's direction. "You miss your brother a lot, don't you?"

Sam didn't answer.

"Dean, is it? I've heard a lot about _him_. God's Dog. The First Artist. A trickster _and _a hunter in one total package." Agares laughed merrily. "Who'd have thought it?"

"They say…" Sam said hoarsely, "they say that you can make runaways come back, and those who run stand still."

Agares nodded solemnly. "If it's on Wikipedia it must be true." Sam stared at him blankly, and the demon shook its head. No manners. This kid didn't have much of a sense of humor, either.

"What about Coyote?"

"Separating the tangled threads of ensoulment isn't my specialty." Agares looked amused. "If you become my apprentice, I can help you with your situation. I can teach you things, Samuel. I can find your brother, make him come back to you, make sure he never leaves you again. Coyote's been walled up for all these years, but we might be able to build that wall up again, make your brother just like he was before."

"What do you want?"

"A small thing, really. Take my hand."

"That's _it_?"

"That's all. No pain, no blood oaths. I leave the theatrics to my less talented brethren." Agares smiled, warm and friendly.

"You'll bring Dean back," Sam whispered roughly, "Just as he was before."

"Yes. I can. No problem."

"Uh uh. _Problem_." John Winchester stood next to that rusted old bakery delivery truck on Sam's left. John held a large triangular shaped amulet in front of him like a shield. Bright yellow sunlight winked and flared around the edges. The demon hissed and stepped back as the light flowed over its body.

"Rude bastards, the lot of you…" Agares muttered darkly underneath his breath.

"Don't let the door hit you on the way out, sweetheart," John drawled lazily.

Agares disappeared in a snap of yellow hellfire.

Sam straightened up as John approached him. _Oh, crap. Dad's gonna think I summoned that thing deliberately, but I didn't. _Sam's whole body tensed up. _Here we go. Here it comes. Back to the same old arguments, same old fights… _

Sam opened his mouth to say_ something_, _anything_. John smiled a little as he shook his head.

"It's okay, Sammy."

_It's --- what?_

The triangle went back into John's jacket pocket as he pulled Dean's amulet out from under his shirt. Sam tilted his head down slightly, and his frown deepened as John reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a clump of slightly wilted grass.

He'd never seen Dad like this before. John stared down at his hand, then he sighed deeply.

"Son, we have to talk."

_**Two**_

_**Two Dogs Homestead**_

_**New Mexico**_

These are the good times.

**_000_**

It was always interesting whenever Bertha's relatives dropped by for a visit. They didn't come by too often, but when they did Thomas had to admit he enjoyed it. He was twisted that way. The house his parents left him was too big for just two people, and they had more than enough room. Thomas came from a large family and while his folks came by occasionally to visit, they had their own lives elsewhere.

After everything settled down Thomas and Bertha opened the door to the guest room to make sure everyone was okay. Thomas tried not to do a double take, but it was hard not to. When he didn't look at them directly he saw a large beautiful coyote lying on its side in one bed, two large mountain lions in each of the other beds, and a giant black bear sitting in that big old rocking chair by the window.

The bear rocked slowly back and forth, and he quirked an eyebrow at them as he rocked.

He changed as he rocked.

Bear.

Black dude.

Bear.

Big bald black dude.

Thomas knew a kachina when he saw one.

Okay. In this household_ that_ was normal. They'd had visitors from the kiva before. It was a good thing the nearest neighbors were miles away.

Thomas nodded and closed the door quickly.

"They were in a bad place. Hell on earth." Bertha said quietly later on as she brushed her hair in front of the bathroom mirror.

"Does he know?" Thomas blurted out. "Ah, that you're his daughter? Coyote's daughter?"

"The Old Man does."

"No, I mean the other one, the hunter?"

She shrugged. "No."

"Don't you think you should tell him?"

She laughed. "He'll be able to tell in a day or so. He'll be weirded out enough as it is. I'm old enough to be his mother. Imagine living your life, and then finding out that there's more inside you than you ever dreamed possible. Roamer will tell him if he needs to."

"Big Bear doesn't look exactly friendly. Think it's safe for him to be in there?"

"Eh." Bertha shrugged. "They have a history, some things they have to sort out. Besides, Bear doesn't kill people who owe him."

"Oh." Thomas shrugged. Wasn't much he could say in response to _that_.

_**000**_

Breakfast the next day was ham and eggs, orange juice and biscuits, and it was the best food he'd had in a while. Dean wolfed it all down, but he didn't ask for seconds and he couldn't get away from the table fast enough.

He left the house in a hurry after breakfast, but not before he mumbled _thank you_ and _the food was good_ (which it was, it definitely _was_). He offered to wash the dishes and didn't seem to mind at all when Bertha told him _no_. Dean might have been a little rough around the edges, and he sure in hell wasn't PC a lot of times, but he was feeling a little bit freaked, and it showed.

Oh hell yeah, did it show.

Bertha and Thomas didn't seem to notice.

Dean sensed the family connection as soon as he laid eyes on Bertha. As soon as he saw her smooth brown face Dean found himself in another time and place, proudly holding his newborn baby daughter Bertha while his lovely young Navajo wife Sarah beamed at him approvingly.

"Are you all right?" Bertha murmured softly. Dean shook his head and came back to the present. "You look like you're freaking out."

"Yes," Dean wanted to say. "Yes, _daughter_, I _am_ freaking out. You're old enough to be my mom, but you're not. You're my _daughter_. I know it, I can feel it, just as well as I know my own name."

Thomas managed to keep a straight face. It would have been unseemly to laugh, to embarrass a guest in his home, but Good Lord, the look on that kid's face was _priceless_.

_**000**_

That night Dean dreamed about dying in his wife Sarah's arms.

_**000**_

The next morning Dean could see Coyote in the headspace, curled up in a ball, eyes closed, his muzzle resting comfortably on his tail. Thank God the furball didn't snore. That was _something_, at least.

_Hey, wake up._

_Huh? What? _

_You gonna let me do all the driving?_

_Yeah._ Coyote yawned hugely. _You're so darn good at it, kid._

That exaggerated, low rumbling fake snore indicated that the conversation was _over_.

Tricky bastard.

_**000**_

Dean discovered the junkers Thomas parked in the back lot.

"Something I can help you with?" Thomas drawled as he walked up from behind.

"Oh, sorry." Dean scuffed the toes of his workboots in the dust. He rubbed the back of his head with his hand as he stared down at the ground. "Didn't mean to come out here and nose around your place…"

"No, no, it's okay. You know something about cars?"

That was just not something Thomas figured a demi-god would be interested in.

Dean's smile was bright and genuine. "Oh, hell yeah."

Thomas picked up a socket wrench and when Dean extended his right hand, palm out, Thomas slapped the tool into Dean's hand. "Pick your poison. Show me what you got. Been workin' on some of these for at least a year or two. Wife thinks I'm wasting my time." He shrugged. "Eh. I got faith."

Dean chose the 1950 Chevy pick-up truck farthest from the end. Candy apple red, with a fearsome chrome grill that looked like it was baring its teeth. That truck was as ornery as hell. Bertha had told Thomas that the truck was resentful because it had been neglected, so he restored the body first. He traded and he bartered for the parts he needed, from Moore's Garage in town and nearly every other backyard mechanic in the county. He scoured the 'net for parts. He talked to the truck as he worked on it, gave thanks for its years of service with the previous owner, promised that it would have a pretty good life, _if only_. _If only it would start._

And it wouldn't. And Thomas didn't give up. Four new tires, premium oil, new filters, a new coat of candy apple red paint. He polished up the grill and that took an entire afternoon.

And still nothing.

"Okay," Dean's voice was muffled by the hood of the truck. "Start it now."

Thomas' hand shook slightly as he turned the key. Over the stutter of the engine he heard Dean purr, low and whiskey smooth, an invocation that was universal: "Come on, baby, come on, come on, come on …"

Twenty six seconds later the pick up truck's engine filled the quiet afternoon air with its full-throated roar. Dean let out a whoop of triumph.

_**000**_

Around noon Redd and Slymm showed up on Bertha's doorstep with two huge dead rabbits. Slymm hung back while Redd stood in front of her.

"You took us in," Redd said bluntly as she thrust the rabbits at Bertha. "So, _here._ Plenty more where_ that_ came from, if you want 'em."

Bertha opened her mouth to thank the sisters and they moved so fast they seemed to disappear.

_**000**_

"Best car you ever owned," Thomas said. "Well?"

"Sixty seven Chevy Impala." Dean said, smiling, and Thomas let out a low whistle. "Black as night. Been in my family for years," Dean said slowly. "My dad used to run a garage in the town I grew up in. He gave her to me a while back."

Dean's eyes unfocused, a mixture of pain and pride. He became very still, and for a moment Thomas thought he was done answering the question.

"Had a difference of opinion with a truck last year," Dean added softly. "I rebuilt her." His eyes focused once again and he shrugged as he leaned back underneath the hood.

Dean kept his head down, his face screwed into an expression of intense concentration and as he worked the hose loose his expression softened. "My dad's got her now. My baby, I mean. She's really something. Leather seats, extra large trunk." He laughed. "427 engine. Get her out on the open road and nothing can touch her. Guzzles gas like nobody's business, but I loved her just the same."

_Loved_. Past tense.

_Ouch. Touched a nerve,_ Thomas thought. _Okay, won't go there anymore._

They hit the road after that, putting that ornery candy apple red truck through its paces, bouncing up and down dusty hillsides. They went where the road took them, and occasionally they made their own roads. Sometimes Thomas drove, and Dean took the wheel only after Thomas insisted.

Kid knew how to drive, too.

**_000_**

Bear showed up on the afternoon of the third day with two bottles of premium beer.

The big man grunted softly as he sat down on the grass next to Dean. They sat there in silence on the hillside, with the warm breezes carding the sparse grass all around them. The Two Dogs homestead was in the valley at their back. Dean could still see Redd and Slymm splashing around in the lake in front of them below.

Dean eyed the bottle doubtfully as he raised it to his lips. Must be a kachina thing, and he mentally prepared himself to lie that the beer was the best damn beer he'd ever tasted. Somehow he didn't think spirit beings knew jack about beer period, much less _good _beer.

It was the best damn beer he'd _ever_ tasted. _In life._

Bear snorted and Dean knew he'd been found out. He took one swallow, then another.

Damn.

The bottle was empty soon enough and Dean couldn't believe what he was seeing. The bottle filled itself back up with beer. He held it up to the light and squinted.

"Damn. This is the gift that keeps on giving."

"Yep. This life does have its perks." Bear grinned. "Besides that, it's environmentally friendly. Only one bottle to get rid of instead of a six-pack."

Dean sat there rolling the bottle between the palms of his hands. "Okay. So, uh...what else do you do? Besides healing people, I mean?"

"What do I do in Man's World? Well, let's see. Couple of months ago I convinced the city fathers that it wouldn't be very wise to build that office park on sacred ground. And I did it without any loss of human life. One of my better efforts."

_Oh, shit. Awkward._

Bear quirked an eyebrow at him. "Look kid, we know what you and your family does for a living. A trickster in a family of hunters, and it's Coyote with the Winchester family, no less. The Powers That Be are twisted, no doubt about it. You know what _I_ am, right?"

Dean nodded. "A kachina."

"And kachinas are ---?"

"Supernatural entities and spirits capable of influencing the natural world," Dean finished.

"An educated man." Bear nodded. "I_ am_ impressed. If I were human I'd be considered an eco-terrorist. We all got a role to play in this world, and that's mine. Sometimes the lines get blurred. Kachinas are the folks that you and the Old Man asked for help for the last two days. Third time's the charm. I got curious and came to have a look."

Down below Slymm crept up on Redd and managed to flip her into the lake. Redd came up squalling and hissing and Slymm backed away laughing as she batted handfuls of water at her sister.

"Like I said," Bear said slowly, "sometimes the lines get blurred. And sometimes they don't. You and Coyote were supposed to merge at one point. Become one being, and you didn't. Sometimes two-as-one is better than two-into-one."

Dean stared at him in disbelief. "Dude, that doesn't make a damn bit of sense."

Bear shrugged. "Nothing in this life ever does."

_**Three**_

_**Middle of Nowhere**_

_**South Dakota**_

_**Three days later**_

Bobby looked pretty damned suspicious when they packed up that morning. John knew the look. Wasn't a damn thing Bobby could do about it, though. They couldn't stay at his place forever. Had to move on. Had to resolve this thing, one way or another. It was family business, and quite frankly it was no concern of Bobby's.

John let Sam drive. John sat in the passenger seat and leafed through his journal. Sixty miles down the road John directed Sam to pull off and drive down a long winding back road.

They could have done this at Bobby's place sure enough, but John and Sam had a problem with that. The idea of exposing a fellow hunter, inviting a demon onto another man's property just didn't sit well with either of them. It was bad enough they were even going through with this, but this part of the country was secluded enough. If things went south there weren't any other humans the demon could take its rage out on.

There was a large empty field at the end of the road. No houses anywhere, and it was highly unlikely someone would decide to take that road going anywhere. It was the middle of nowhere, and that suited John and Sam just fine.

John built the fire nearby, and when the wood caught and burned he stepped in and dropped the bag of horehound herb onto the flames.

God, his mouth was dry and he could swear there was sulfur in the air already.

_They'd held him down on those hot simmering rocks. They peeled his skin back inch by inch and shrieked with laughter as they did it._

_Caliym drew near. She carded his dark hair with her long slim fingers, and she licked at at the tears running down his face with her long forked tongue. "Dear Johnny," she purred, "still think your darling eldest son is worth all this pain and trouble?" _

"Dad? You think this will work?"

John shook his head to clear it, and when he spoke his voice was a little harsher than he'd meant it to be, but Sam appeared not to notice.

"Yeah. Yeah, I do, Sammy. You got the oil of abramelin?" Sam nodded. He'd anointed himself with the oil, same as John had.

"You need to keep that angelica root and frankincense in your pockets at all times." Sam nodded. "Use that flask of holy water I gave you if you have to. Push come to shove, we'll use the Rituale Romanum if this thing goes south." The smoke from the horehound herb swirled all around them. John fanned the smoke into his clothes and body and made sure that Sam did the same.

Sam nodded. If John felt the need to go over everything out loud it was fine by Sam.

They waited. An hour before sunset John drew the sigil of Caliym in the dirt in the middle of the field. Sam carefully arranged the yellow candles around the sigil.

One hour after sunset Sam lit the candles one by one, and John read the invocation out loud.

…_serpens antique, imaginem caliym tu viscera regas, est diabolo et angelis ejus…_

She_ came_ into the sigil smoothly, almost elegantly. She was beautiful, tall and statuesque, dressed in a long form-fitting black lace dress. Her long wavy brown hair reached down to her waist, and her eyes gleamed red in the candlelight.

"You say the sweetest things, John," the demon Caliym purred. "Did you miss me?"

_**00000**_

I expect to have the next chapter up in a couple of days. Dean finds out whether it's a deal or no deal with Coyote, and some of Coyote's old friends drop by for a visit.


	47. Chapter 47 The Devil His Due

A/N: If you need a visual reference as to what Beloved's folks look like, think "Cloverfield" with spines. Italics indicates thoughts and flashbacks. Information about the "Corpse-poison Way" or the "Witchery Way" from Wikipedia. The following takes place all on the same day that John and Sam leave Bobby's place.

The restful interlude's over, folks, 'cause the shit's hitting the fan. _**Right. Now.**_

Disclaimer: Don't own 'em, darn it.

_**Dog Eat Dog**_

_**Chapter 47 – The Devil His Due**_

_**One**_

_**Singer Salvage Yard**_

_**South Dakota**_

_**Earlier that same day**_

Bobby stood there in the bright morning sunlight and watched John and Sam pull off in the Impala. That bad feeling in his gut got bigger and heavier, but he kept his poker face on and managed a slow, casual right-handed wave as he turned back to the house. He climbed the front steps like he surely just didn't give a damn. Everything's normal, folks, move on. Nothing to see here.

He could feel John's eyes on him, that hard steel gaze bouncing back at him from the rear view mirror. Bobby went inside his house and as soon as he shut the door behind him he moved through the house, into the kitchen and out the back door faster than you would have supposed a man his age could move. The keys to the Chevelle were in his pocket.

The Chevelle sat in the yard by the kitchen door.

He grabbed up the duffel on the back porch and just slung it by its handles through the open window onto the passenger side.

_Don't con a con man_, he thought to himself. He smiled a little as he turned the key and the Chevelle roared to life. It could run a little. It would do.

_**Two**_

_**Outskirts - Two Dogs Homestead**_

_**New Mexico**_

_**Earlier the same day**_

Sometimes the Others took the form of crows, sometimes dust devils that orbited around each other, kicking up coarse sandy soil into the hot dry air. They could have grown wings and taken to the sky, but it was best not to tempt fate. Coyote had a well-deserved reputation for trickery. It was best to wait. Only fools would rush in.

The spiny ones could eat the other meat down there, of course, but not the young male with the green eyes. Coyote was special, and this was the second time they'd tried to claim him. He was strong before, but if the rumors were true, and he was weak now, well, he was_ still _useful to them.

They could use that fine thick pelt of his to shapeshift, grind his body up into corpse pollen. Usually the best body parts were from children, the fingerprints and the back of the skull bones, but this was the legendary Coyote, and every part of him could be useful, powerful _'áńt'į_ for the_'áńt'įįzhį, _the Corpse-poison Way.

It was better to let the spiny ones go in first, let them see if the Old Man was still as lethal as ever. They didn't like to move around in the sunlight, but the Others could give them a nudge in the proper direction.

After all, they knew a trick or two.

_**000**_

She sat near the entrance of the cave. Earlier she'd stayed in the sun long enough to pull Coyote's scent inside her nose, mouth and throat. She was sharp-eyed, like all of her kind, and she glimpsed the two-legger as he sat up on the hillside. He looked the same as he did the first time she saw him. Looked the same, but different. He was two in one this time, stronger than he had been beside Beloved's bones, but there was still something about him that made her think he could be taken unaware.

She retreated into the cave when the sun began to burn her skin. It was too light out there, too bright. It reddened her skin, pulled it tight over her bones. Her large silver eyes ached despite her third eyelid and her joints hurt.

She hunkered down in the damp blackness of the cave, and she snapped her jaws and flicked her spines at her brother mate when he got too close. Her three young ones huddled nearby, picking bugs off each other with their jagged teeth, smoothing out their rough reddened skin with the second set of those stubby arms of theirs.

One got a little too enthusiastic and the other mewled irritably, nipping at its litter mate with gaping slick jaws. They subsided meekly when she swung her large head around and glared at them. They were the oldest of her current brood, the largest and the fiercest. More importantly, they _listened _to her. They would do _what_ she told them to do, _when_ she told them to do it, which was why she brought them along, and left the others in her burrow miles away.

She felt impatient, and that wasn't like her. Usually they'd wait until cover of darkness and then sweep down onto the house. The others would follow her in, and the feast would be a reward for their obedience.

A mother took care of her children. Always.

She sat by the mouth of the cave and thought about how Coyote had hurt her all those years ago. She never forgot that yellow glow in those wide green eyes. She'd made him bleed when he hurt her, but that didn't stop him. She'd fed off two-leggers for years by then, and she couldn't understand why he would be any different from the other food she'd had.

She knew the Others were watching, and that was fine as long as they stayed out of her way. They'd found her bloodied and broken, healed her all those many years ago, but she didn't know what gratitude was, didn't care and only related to her own kind.

_Names have power, mother. Never forget that. _

Her skin blushed red as she moved out into the sunlight, but she couldn't feel it. The voices of the Others coiled around her brain like snakes sunbathing on a rock, and her brother mate and her brood followed.

_**Three**_

_Nothing good lasts. Nothing good ever does._

Six days. He'd had a good six days in a row.

Almost a damn week. Talk about a personal best.

It happened sometimes. Happened on the road with Dad and Sammy, too, more often when Sam was growing up and Dad decided to stay in one place at least until Sam finished that grade in school. Then they'd move on to another town, another job, another hunt.

Then came that damn growth spurt. _Sammy_ became_ Sam_ and moving around constantly became a mighty sore subject between Dad and Sam. Staying put hadn't happened as much when Dean was in school, but he didn't bitch about it. Didn't see the point. Dad had enough on his mind every day, and Dean felt there was no sense in _him_ adding to the drama.

They'd had enough drama for a lifetime, anyway. His membership-for-life in the freak club was bought and paid for that November night when he looked up and saw his mother bleeding and burning on the ceiling of Sammy's nursery.

_We didn't choose this freak show. It chose us. _

Dean didn't think too much about John and Sam. Wouldn't let himself. They were okay. Well, maybe not _I'm jumpin' for joy 'cause I'm livin' the dream-okay_, but they were alive and together and that was the whole freakin' point of this exercise, boys and girls.

It was time to give Coyote his due.

Even though the Old Man hadn't said anything, there was no reason to delay the inevitable any longer. Besides, it made Dean feel better to be the one who would bring it up. He was in control that way. At least, he could fool himself into thinking that.

_Healed_, not _fixed_, remember?

He frowned slightly as he watched Redd and Slymm down by the lake. Dean didn't know what was going to happen once he went behind the wall, but he didn't like the idea of the two sisters getting hurt. They weren't used to hiding from the world. They'd have to be taught to conceal themselves. Taught to shapeshift, probably. Dean didn't know if Coyote had even thought about _that_, but there was no harm in putting the idea out there.

Stuff popped into his brain _just like that_ all the time now, and Dean had no idea exactly _where _those thoughts were coming from. On the All-Time Weird Shit-O-Meter? This buried the needle, man. The meter was _busted_. Seriously.

_There's more inside that pretty head of yours than you even realize, Dean._

_Azazel._

_Whoa. Erase tape. __**Now.**_

That yellow-eyed bastard was dead and gone; Dean didn't want to go behind the wall with _that_ bastard's voice echoing inside his head.

Dean stood up, brushed his hands on the thighs of his jeans. Whoever said cats hated water had evidently never met up with women who were half feline. Redd and Slymm swam happily around in the lake and probably wouldn't come out unless he asked them to. The sisters were followers. They'd chosen that path, and they were loyal.

Dean hoped the Old Man would appreciate that.

_**God, he looks so much like Mary…**_

Dean jerked around, startled.

_**Huh. I didn't think you'd come.**_

Dad had been here.

_**Does the way I look bother you, Papa?**_

Dad had been _**here.**_

It wasn't a question. It was a statement of fact.

Dean stood there, frozen in place. Everything blurred around him. He took a long shuddering lungful of air that felt razor sharp going down, and his knees locked. He couldn't understand why it was so hard to breathe. Kept on blinking and wished he could stop. He stared blankly into space and he saw his father.

Dean saw it _all_.

_**John hooks a finger around the leather cord of Dean's amulet, pulls it up all the way out from underneath his shirt. "You gave me this. **__**You**__**. Not Dean. Why?"**_

_**Coyote shrugs. "Why not?"**_

_**The corners of John's mouth turn up in a slight smile as he turns to look at Coyote again. "I didn't come here to play games with you."**_

_Dad, oh God, Dad was here…_

Dean blinked, once twice, slowly, and by the time he opened up his eyes the second time he was standing in the headspace, underneath that huge sheltering tree on the hill. Coyote stood underneath the tree, leaning with his right hand on the trunk, looking at the far horizon. He was Dean's mirror image, right down to the faded jeans, work boots, black t shirt and that purple plaid shirt.

For a split second Dean was glad that the bastard was two-legged again. He didn't like abusing animals, but right now that wouldn't have made any difference.

Coyote turned around as Dean walked up. Dean hit him in the face.

Coyote hit the ground on his back, the side of his mouth bruised and bleeding, his green yellow eyes wide in shock.

"Get up," Dean growled roughly, his right hand still curled into a fist. "You tricky son-of-a-bitch, _get the hell up_."

Coyote wiped at his mouth, then stared at the blood on his fingers, his face carefully blank. "You got something to say to me?"

Dean stood over him, eyes blazing. "Fucking right I do. You stuck your damn nose in where it doesn't belong. My dad was _**here. **__**You**__ brought him here._ I said my good-byes already. What the hell did you think you were doin'?"

"I wanted…I don't…" Coyote frowned and shook his head. "Forget it. Just…forget it."

"_Not good enough!"_ Dean roared. He fisted a handful of Coyote's shirt and yanked him up and backwards into the tree trunk with one hand.

"_What?_ You wanted _what_?"

Coyote looked too young, too fragile somehow. He stared blankly down at the ground as Dean tightened his grip on him and shook him so hard his teeth rattled.

"Well?"

"I don't trust John," Coyote whispered finally, miserably. He wouldn't look Dean in the eye. "I think he…I think he hates me. Maybe Sam does too. I had to make sure…"

"What? Why the hell do _you_ care whether they _like_ you or not?"

'They're family. Your…_our _family. Only one…I've ever stayed with_ this_ long." Coyote's eyes unfocused and he shook his head. "Most screwed up one I've ever _had_, I'll tell you that…"

Dean released Coyote's shirt and backed up a little. He made a soft sound of disgust and scorn as he turned to go. "The hell with this. I'm not gonna stand here and have a fucking chick flick moment with a---"

Coyote disappeared from behind and appeared again right there in Dean's face. "With a _what_, boy? With a _what_? _A fugly_?" He bared his teeth, tilted his head to one side. "Pot callin' the kettle_ black_, don't you think?"

Dean stared at him hard for a moment, then his features eased into a tight smile. "I get it," he nodded. "I finally _do_. Nature of the beast, huh? Okay. We had a deal. You help me, I give you control. You drive from now on, and I go behind the wall. _Let's do this._ _Now_."

Coyote drew back. "No."

"No?" Dean stepped forward, raised his arms wide and open. "Come on, Old Man. Take it. It's all yours. Just what you've been waiting for, yeah?"

"No." Coyote backed up, and Dean looked on in disbelief as Coyote stammered, "I don't…I don't wanna drive."

"Why the hell not? We had a deal."

Coyote stared at the ground next to Dean's boots. "You didn't wall me back up," he murmured softly. Dean wasn't sure he'd heard right.

"I didn't --what?"

"You didn't wall me up," Coyote repeated dully. He raised his head and looked Dean directly in the eyes. "That was all I cared about." He dropped his eyes again and stared at the ground. "Don't wanna drive," he whispered roughly. "Never did."

Dean just stared at him.

Everything inside him stuttered to a stop.

A screeching, sideways halt.

He could feel _everything. _

He couldn't feel _anything_.

His ankles went weak, _his ankles_, for cripes sake, not his knees. He couldn't feel the breath inside his body. No heart beat, nothing, just _fear and sadness and relief and rage and panic_ colliding together, locking him in place.

He was back on the hillside standing there frozen in the sunshine, staring blankly into space and God help him, he hadn't thought of _anything _past this moment.

He didn't notice the shadows creeping down the hill behind him.

_**Four **_

_**Middle of Nowhere, South Dakota**_

_**Later on that same night**_

_They burn him from head to toe, over and over again, and she smiles. He tries to ignore the way his muscles twitch as they pierce his body, and she smiles. _

_The bitch always smiles._

"It's so nice to be wanted. And needed," Caliym purred. Sam stared at her, and when he realized that the shawl around her slim shoulders was actually human skins sewn together he flipped John's journal open to the _Rituale Romanum_.

"And this must be Sam," she simpered. She ran her long tongue over her full blood red lips as she looked Sam up and down slowly, lustfully. Sam's skin crawled and Caliym's smile got even wider. "My my, I can see why Azazel prized you so much. You're such a delectable morsel, Sammy."

"It's Sam. Not Sammy. You don't have the right to call me that," Sam snapped roughly.

"You don't talk to _him_, sweetheart," John drawled as he stepped forward. "You talk to _me_."

Caliym sniffed the air as she looked around. She didn't seem to be much intimidated by any of the precautions they'd taken. "You did all this for little old _me_? I'm flattered."

"Don't be. It's the one night of the year that you _have_ to do as you're told, no matter who summons you."

Her eyes glittered shiny black, then red again. She pouted. "You read the old texts. Mmm," she moaned deep in her throat as she ground her hips in John's direction. "Beauty _and _brains. Do you have any idea how attractive that is? Come over here, Papa. I won't bite. Much."

"Cut the crap. I need transport."

Her eyes went flat black and shiny. "You should ask me something _hard_, John." She rolled her eyes. "The meaning of life. Gee, wish I had a dollar for every time I've heard _that_ one from you meatsuits. Who shot Kennedy. Where Elvis and Jimmy Hoffa are hanging out these days. It's not where you _think_, by the way. Planes, trains, and automobiles. Hmph." She tossed her head as she scowled. "I'm _not_ your personal taxi service."

"You are tonight, darlin'," John snorted. His smile was hard and bright. "You're bound to whoever conjures you up tonight. That's _us_."

"You bastards never should have been allowed to learn Latin." Caliym murmured darkly to herself. "I knew that would lead to nothing but trouble." She stood there for a moment, tapping her sleek black high-heeled foot in the dust. She looked up and her face brightened considerably. "All right. Where to? Paris? Rome? LasVegas? Sydney?"

"New Mexico. I need to get to my son."

Caliym frowned. "That's _it_? That's_ all_? Hate to be the one to break it to you, Johnny, but Coyote is quite a mover and a shaker in his own right. Why don't you ask _him_ for a ride?" She didn't give John time to answer.

He wouldn't have, anyway.

"Ahh," Caliym's smile got even wider, and Sam frankly didn't think that was possible. The light dawned. "He doesn't know you're_ coming_. He doesn't want you_ around_. If he did you wouldn't have to ask _me_." She seemed pretty well pleased with herself for having figured it out.

"You…you know about Dean and Coyote?"

She shook her head, smiling. "Oh, _Sammy_. _Everybody knows_. And you people seem to think that the Powers That Be are all that pure and good and noble. That's the best joke I've heard in quite a while." She twirled one of her long brown locks around one finger and smirked. "Oh, I wish I'd been a fly on the wall when you found _that_ one out, boys. Big bad trickster inside your perfect soldier, Johnny. And poor little Sammy finds out that big brother's been keeping secrets from him, after all this time. Such a shame." Her smile was_ too_ bright. Too many teeth. "Poor little Deanie. Those big green eyes of his. Just like his Mama's. Tell me John, what did you think the first time he showed you the yellow in his eyes?"

John sighed. "Sammy? Start reading."

"Oremus Oratio. Deus, et Pater Domini nostri Jesu Christi, invoco nomen sanctum …."

Caliym recoiled. "Oh, hell! All right! All right!"

Sam stopped.

"I don't know what it is about you damn Winchesters," Bobby Singer said out loud. "Always ready and willing to throw yourselves into the pit."

_**000000**_

Okay, that's it for now. Drop me a line and let me know what you think.

Next chapter will be up Saturday.


	48. Chapter 48 No Safe Place

A/N: That darn spyware slowed my computer up quite a bit, so I couldn't wheel and deal between programs as fast as I usually do. I intended to post this Saturday morning._** Last**_ Saturday morning. Oops. My bad.

Over three hundred reviews. So you guys aren't sick of me, huh? Thanks to everyone who's reviewed and put "Dog" on their Story and Author Alert lists! Also, much love to the lurkers. I'm feelin' kinda misty eyed here!

Had a hard time writing this because of what I do to some characters that I really like. All the action takes place during the same day John and Sam left Bobby Singer's place.

Summary: The restful interlude's over, folks, 'cause the shit's hitting the fan. _**Right. Now.**_

Disclaimer: Don't own 'em, darn it.

_**Dog Eat Dog**_

_**Chapter 48 – No Safe Place**_

_**One**_

_**Two Dogs Homestead**_

_**New Mexico**_

After the tow truck guy pulled off in a cloud of dust Thomas just stood there in the doorway of the barn, a wide grin stretching all the way across his broad brown face. He felt like the cat that swallowed the canary, and he knew he looked the part too.

He traded in three of the trucks he and Dean worked on in order to clinch the deal with Moore's Garage. He kept that ornery candy apple red pick-up truck because he'd promised that he would, but he made no such promise to the rest.

Thomas walked around the car, idly running his fingertips across the hood, the trunk. Despite the patches of rust here and there, and the missing chrome around the rear window she was still a beauty. Nothing that a little tender loving care and elbow grease couldn't fix. Sure, there were other 1967 Chevy Impalas in the county, but when he saw her a couple of days ago at the garage Thomas had gotten a good feeling about _this_ one. He had no intention of dredging up painful memories for Dean; he just wanted to give the kid back something that he'd lost. Thomas ran his hand lovingly down the left front fender of the car just before he walked out. He was careful to latch the barn door shut behind him.

Be dark in a couple of hours. Bertha had gone into town, and he planned on having supper on the table by the time she got back. Afterwards he was going to put on his best poker face, walk up to Dean and tell him that he really needed his help in the barn.

Halfway to the house Thomas stopped to watch Bertha's brown mare and several of the other horses. They were all bunched up together on the side nearest the house, squealing and whickering. That two year old grey and white pinto colt stood shivering and shaking in the opposite corner all alone. Thomas squinted, blinking in the sunlight. It looked like the colt had a lumpy grey saddle blanket on his back. That didn't look right.

Despite the desert heat he felt a chill in the air.

And God help him, for some reason he didn't want to get close enough to get a really good look at whatever it was.

_**-- RUN, GET THE HELL OUT OF HERE ---**_

Dean's voice, plain as day, so loud inside his head it made his ears ring.

Something was happening.

Something was already _here_.

That grey lump on the colt's back _moved_. The thing wrapped long spindly arms and legs around the colt's barrel shaped body and grinned at Thomas, red-eyed. It sunk its long sharp needle-like teeth into the back of the colt's neck.

Thomas stood there frozen. The colt gave a tired whuffing sound and slowly sank forward on its knees, as if it were praying.

Thomas backed up towards the house.

_Slowly._

The shotgun was tucked away alongside the railing next to the porch swing. He turned towards the house, and just as he did Thomas caught sight of something up on the roof. He stepped back, shading his eyes from the sun with his right hand.

It was an owl. A Great Horned Owl, perched on the roof overhanging the porch. The large brown bird leaned forward slightly, and its large unblinking yellow eyes locked onto Thomas' startled brown ones.

And at the last moment Thomas remembered that he hated surprises, because they were usually unpleasant.

The chewing sounds behind him, the nervous stamping and squealing of the horses all faded away into the background. He felt himself falling backwards, sinking deep into his skin as the Other one pushed his way inside his body. Thomas thought of Bertha ---

_I love you, babe, I do. I'm sorry, so sorry…_

It was too little, too late.

A moment later the Other one wearing Thomas' skin laughed as he picked up the shotgun up and walked over to the corral.

He put a wide smile on Thomas' face as he shot and killed all the horses, and he stood so close that his skin and clothes were splattered with blood and gore. He even killed the grayling that clung to the colt's back, and that didn't really matter 'cause there were plenty more where _that_ little bastard came from. The skinwalker laughed and he smiled, and the smile even reached his eyes. It was a good joke, a fine joke, too good to keep to himself. He wanted to share. Bertha was miles away, in town, and he reached out to share it with her.

_**Two**_

--- behind him smell of dried blood and shit in the air and Dean knows what it's _not_, not Bear, not a kachina, can't sense that bright golden light, Redd and Slymm at the edge of the lake below and it sure in the hell ain't Thomas or Bertha --

--- Coyote's four legged now, wild yellow eyes and bared teeth, sharp and white _Wiped out a nest of these things back in the day…can't be them, can't be…I killed 'em…killed them all…_three hundred sixty degree rear sight kicks in behind him and Dean's eyes widen in shock _God these are some ugly mothers_, heads like blunt instruments, large silver eyes, legs bent in all the wrong directions, sunburned grey skin and whip-like spines…

--- he's growling and snarling, a low deep sound that vibrates way down in his chest and throat and he doesn't know if it's him or Coyote and doesn't care anymore and the fierce glow from his eyes warms his skin as he fills his right hand with his Colt 1911, his left with his Desert Eagle and all he can think about is Thomas and Bertha and Redd and Slymm and _that's it, you fugly bastards, __**here I am**__, you don't want __**them**__, you want __**me **_---

--- they're on him even as he turns around, the biggest one shrieking and screeching as he moves, pushing them back with his mind, blowing fist sized holes in the bastards with the guns and one of them glides in low past him like oily black water, headed for the lake and the sisters below, and Dean turns and empties half a clip into the fucker, sends it sprawling and shrieking down on those impossibly bent knees as he silently yells at the sisters _**RUN, GET THE HELL OUT OF HERE **_---

--- but it doesn't go down all the way, scrambling forward like a broken legged crab, fugly bastard's still headed for the lake and as Dean turns to track it with the Desert Eagle the first spine punches through his right shoulder and he tries not to scream out and the second one pierces his left thigh and the smallest fugly closest to him face plants into the ground as he shoots it in the face but the others just climb over it and keep on coming and nothing matters anymore as they slam into him on all sides, gaping mouths and jagged claws that pop his skin open like a ripe grape, his own blood warm and salty against his skin as the world around him melts into a blur of misshapen limbs and silver eyes….

_**Three**_

_**Pryce-Atkins Construction site**_

_**Flagstaff, Arizona**_

Bear figured he had a few hours to kill before he made his next move. The good folks at Pryce-Atkins Bank apparently needed a stronger reminder as to why it was such a bad idea to build their new world headquarters on that spot in the first place.

Time to haul out the big guns. Creating freakishly large sinkholes that mysteriously appeared underneath construction sites overnight was a personal favorite of Bear's. A properly placed, well-timed sinkhole was a real show shopper guaranteed to put a sizable dent in any company's profit margin.

Bear tipped his hard hat back on his head. He grabbed his Thermos and fell in behind the other crew members heading for the exit. He felt uneasy in his skin, and he didn't know why. There was a wrongness in the air, a bad vibration he hadn't felt in a long time.

"Hey there."

Bear glanced over and growled, deep in his throat.

Sonsabitches were gettin' _bold_.

It was Ben Tucker's body, all right. Same tall, beefy ex-Marine with that distinctive white crew cut, but Ben wasn't home anymore. Ben's smile was too bright and his eyes were pitch black.

Bear narrowed his eyes as they turned onto the sidewalk.

"Too bad 'bout your boy, huh?"

"My boy?" Bear rumbled.

"Coyote and that damn hunter cub of his. There's no safe place for him. Not any more. He's back and he's weak, and they're gonna take 'em." Ben's normally gruff voice was pitched higher than normal. Nobody else noticed a thing. Bear extended his power, stared into those glassy black eyes and pulled the vision out.

_The __cave__ is dark, lit only by the flickering ghost light up in the corners. Bodies shift from one form to the next as they move around in the darkness, sometimes on four legs, sometimes two. Male at first, then female, then back again. Painted skin to striped fur. Dean Winchester sits upright against the far wall, arms out to his sides, staked to the rock wall, and as they pad towards him with their skinning knives and blood bowls he raises his head, opens his eyes and stares at them defiantly… _

Bear's upper lip curled up in a snarl._"__'Ánt'įįhnii__ …witch people…"_

"Surprised you didn't pick up on it before, Teddy Bear," the demon prattled on. "Wheel's turnin' in the opposite direction now. You'll see."

"Okay, shit for brains," Bear muttered crossly. His brown eyes glowed bright amber and the demon's black eyes widened in surprise. Ben Tucker's back went ramrod straight as Bear pushed one large palm up against Tucker's forehead and pulled up and back, his broad fingers hooked into claws. Strings of dense black smoke poured out of Tucker's skin and dissolved into dead grey wisps of smoke.

Tucker squinted painfully as his vision cleared. Damn, the inside of his head was buzzing like crazy. Maybe he oughta cut out the boozing, 'cause he couldn't shake it off the next day like he could when he was younger. He looked around woozily, blinking in the sunlight.

Crap. Could've sworn he was talking to that big black guy, the one with that nickname…oh yeah. Bear. He was gone now. For a big dude he sure could move fast.

_**Four **_

_**Bixby, New Mexico**_

_**Same day**_

"Ma'm, are you all right?"

Bertha couldn't hear. She stood frozen in place, sliding down, away from the world. She was vaguely aware of the store clerk's hand on her arm. Her right hand clenched so violently the glass jar in her hand shattered.

"Ma'm?"

_**--- RUN, GET THE HELL OUT OF HERE---**_

Thomas' fingertips brushed against her skin, and she tightened her grip but she couldn't hold him.

She couldn't understand why she couldn't hold him.

_I love you, babe, I do. I'm sorry, so sorry…_

He slipped away from her, pushed down deep inside his own skin, locked away, and all that was left was the thing that wore his body. She stood there crying, tears running down her face, and the skinwalker inside Thomas smiled and smiled, all good cheer and humor.

_Be seeing you real soon, bitch. Why don't you be a good little girl and come on home now, huh?_

The shards of broken glass bit deeply into the palm of her hand and she couldn't even feel it.

_**Five**_

_**Outskirts of Two Dogs Homestead**_

_**New Mexico**_

At some point he became aware that they weren't moving anymore. It took him a while to realize that. He could still hear the hissing and the screeching and that deep bass growling and snarling.

That was _him_, wasn't it?

Dean wasn't sure.

They lay on the ground all around him. Bloodied, broken heaps. Being freshly dead didn't improve their looks either. Nothing could. He smelled wet blood and shit and slime and other bodily fluids that his mind refused to identify. The air felt wet against his skin. He breathed, and he hurt.

But _they_ weren't moving anymore and he was damn glad about _that_.

Dean looked down dully. He could barely feel the ground through the worn knees of his jeans. There was blood all around, and he couldn't tell which was theirs and which was his.

Huh.

One of the bastards nearby twitched its legs and he raised the Colt without much thought and emptied an entire clip into it.

Bastard didn't move again.

_Maqįį…_

The voice was like snakes slithering through tall grass, low, stealthy.

Shadows whispered and shifted all around him.

Dean lifted his head wearily. More of 'em. There were more of 'em, and if they needed killing he would be happy to oblige._ Just let me catch my breath you sorry fucker and I'll be right with you…_

One of the shadows chuckled and Dean wondered just what was so damned fucking amusing.

…_two-as-one…_

…'Ánt'įįhnii… Coyote whispered faintly. He sat in the headspace, panting, winded, with his back against the tree. "Witch people. They practice the Witchery Way. Came from First Man. First Woman. Bad idea. Very bad idea." Coyote shook his head wearily. "Tried to tell them so, but would they listen? Oh hell no…"

Dean squinted in the sunlight. Out of all the shadows that stood around him there was one in particular that bothered him the most. The wolf standing in front of him had swallowed a man, and the dude's face was framed by the animal's wide gaping jaws full of teeth. The face and lips were coal black, slick. There was bright blue color on his nose and chin, bright blue smeared underneath those intense brown eyes. The blue and the black might have been paint. Or maybe not.

Dean didn't like that smile. He'd seen that smile and those eyes before.

The vision rose up all around him, and he briefly wondered if this was how Sammy felt when that yellow-eyed bastard's visions pushed themselves into his head, whether Sam wanted them to or not.

…_cold…he felt so cold... _

_Being stabbed in the back didn't hurt that much. Stopped hurting when the cold spread through his body and his legs gave out on him. Sarah's arms were warm around him, and he could barely feel her. She was crying, and he felt really bad about that. He didn't want to leave, didn't want to leave her and the baby. He wanted to see Bertha grow up, wanted to live with Sarah by his side, but he was cold and there was so much blood and he couldn't get up…_

Dean's eyes widened in shock.

"We took from you before," the wolf skinwalker said. "Your wife. Your child. Your family and your life. You knew it then. You know it now. There's no safe place around you, Roamer. What you did here today doesn't matter. None of this does. The rest of them still think you're weak. They'll hunt you like a dog for the rest of your days. You'll have no peace. They'll kill everything and everyone you love, Old Man. And there will come a day when you will come willingly to us, you'll beg us to end it for you. You'll bare your throat to our knives and smile as we bleed you."

"Not even on your best day," Dean whispered roughly.

He stared down at his hands. He had a death grip on both guns, and his fingers hurt. He willed the Colt and the Desert Eagle to go away. He didn't need them anymore. He'd kill them all with his bare hands.

He'd enjoy it more that way.

He'd kill the wolf first, and then the others. Dean saw several coyotes, crows and mountain lions. Snakes coiled on the ground all around them. They backed up when he looked at them, and that was how Dean knew they were seeing the yellow in his eyes.

They were afraid of him. Even as weak as he was, they were afraid of him. Otherwise, why stand around and talk?

_Got to get up_, Dean thought hazily to himself. _Get up __**now**__…_

When he looked up again the sun was at the horizon. The Others were gone.

He got up, even though his head and body bitched about it. He was wobbly as a newborn colt, but he staggered down the hill, slowly. He was in so much pain he couldn't feel it, and as he neared the lake Dean froze, swaying on his feet, as his heart and his gut clenched painfully.

Redd died first.

_**000000**_

If this computer makes it through the day I plan on posting soon this weekend.

Next up: More angst with Dean, Sam and John.


	49. Ch 49 Carry On My Wayward Son: Warsong

A/N: Nyx is a goddess of the night (thank you, Wikipedia). The nyx are my AU version of night critters who wear human skins like clothing. Dialogue paraphrased from "In My Time of Dying" (Jensen Ross Ackles Fans episode summaries – courtesy of Aurelia). Portions of the warsong paraphrased from "Devil's Trap" (same source). Verb tense and italics: John's flashbacks. Italics: Dean's visions. Oh yes, John curses. A lot.

Disclaimer: Don't own 'em. You have no idea how much it pains me to say that.

_**Dog Eat Dog**_

_**Chapter 49 – Carry On My Wayward Son: Warsong**_

_**One **_

_**Middle of Nowhere, South Dakota**_

_**Same night**_

"Huh. Another one." Caliym stood there tapping her foot impatiently as she glared at Bobby. "You got a busload of people coming, Johnny boy? You don't have all night, y'know."

"I expected somethin' stupid like this from _you_, John. Just back from hell, so I _know_ your head isn't screwed back on just right." Bobby wasn't going to mince words. Wasn't his way. If John or Sam didn't like it, well, tough shit. He was here to try to talk some sense into these fools.

Bobby stood there easily, his duffel slung over his shoulder. He made no sudden movements, kept his hands out where they could see them. It was stupid stepping out unarmed, but if he'd walked out on them carrying his shotgun there was no telling what kind of shit would start. This was_ family_ he was interfering in, pretty touchy stuff.

The smart play would have been to turn a blind eye to all of it and not give any of it a second thought. But there was the little matter of being able to look at himself in the mirror. Of seeing good people damn themselves to hell over some impossible shit. There was _that_.

Sam stood there with his broad shoulders slumped slightly. John was the most likely threat, but Bobby wasn't counting Sam out either. The boy wanted,_ needed_ to have his brother back by his side. Sam's eyes were dark, full of shadows and pain that he didn't even bother to hide anymore.

"Sam, I figured you could talk some sense into your Dad. Seems I figured wrong. Neither one'a you is thinkin' straight when it comes to Dean."

_Bastard doesn't know the half of it_, John thought to himself. Summoning this bitch up from the depths dredged up all kinds of shit he'd just as soon forget.

_Caliym __laughs as she pushes the spikes into his arms and legs. He's spreadeagled on his back, pinned down to that rocky red floor. The stench of sulfur and blood fills his nose and mouth as she twists the spikes all the way in. Her smile brightens when his body bucks and twists with pain. _

_**Yo**__**ur boy played you, hunter,**__ she whispers in the shell of his right ear. __**Played you good. Oh, didn't he look all pale and weak and helpless lying there in that hospital bed after the crash?**__ Caliym pouts, walks her slim fingers up and down John's bare thigh. Her fingertips are slicked with his blood and her long blue forked tongue darts out for a taste. __**Tugged at those daddy heartstrings of yours, didn't he? That old dog had you by the balls, Johnny boy. You were up on tiptoe and didn't even know it. Nice trick, huh?**_

_They lie__, John told himself. __Demons lie._

He believed it. He held onto that. Every fucking day, every damn minute he was down there.

_Over a week ago, at the Wayfarer Inn, he dreams one of the rare, peaceful good ones. Dean's little, bright blond and shy. Sam's smaller, all goggle-eyes, spit, and fat baby fists. Mary, sweet beautiful Mary, fills his days with laughter, smiles and promise of a future so bright it hurts. It's the good times back in Lawrence, before flames and screams, grim faced first responders and smoke-filled November nights. When John opens his eyes he's lying on his side. He blinks once. He can't move a muscle._

_Dean is there. _

_**Twice. **_

_Mirror images of each other. One holds the other up. They both look beat to hell, but John instinctively knows which one is __**his**__ boy. __**His son.**_

_Dean stands there, and Coyote is next to him, and even though he knows better John hates the damned thing on sight, wants to get up and hook his fingers firmly around that throat and squeeze that yellow light out of those inhuman green eyes. John wants to wipe that curiously blank expression off Coyote's face. Make him flinch. Make him bleed. _

_But, it's __**Dean's**__ face, so he can't. But a part of John wants to lash out so badly… _

_He lies there, unable to move._

_Dean looks around the room, searches them out, hesitant, uncertain. His eyes widen, lingering on all three men, but on Sam and John most of all, and the mask slips. Fear, then relief overflows those fine features, and finally sadness settles over him, makes his face go horribly blank as he exhales, slow and ragged. He's reached the end. It's sweet relief, and John can see it plain as day. Dean's not a hunter anymore, not even the vessel for a demi-god. He sways slightly on his feet, tired and pale, looking far too young for his years, despite the light stubble, the bruises, blood, and the leather. _

_**You take care of Sammy, John thinks. You take care of me. You always have, and you never complain, not even once. I made you grow up way too fast. I did that to you, and I'm sorry. Dean, I am so damn sorry…. **_

"_Let's go," Dean whispers roughly. "Go and never come back."_

_John's heart clenches painfully. Once. Twice. _

_Dean can't see John has his eyes open. It's Coyote casting some kind of damn glamour, has to be. _

_**Don't go. Dean, please, don't, **__John shouts out loud and clear. The words echo inside his skull. He can't open his mouth to say the words, and Dean doesn't hear. _

_They leave, and then **one** of them comes back. _

_As soon as John lays eyes on him, he knows. John wants to yell at him. __**Don't wear my son's form, you bastard, you don't have the right. **__John's angry and fearful and confused. Coyote's expression is unreadable as he thrusts out his hand. _

_**Here. Take this. Wear it. **_

_John grasps Dean's amulet with numb, clumsy fingers. _

Later on in the day at a rest stop half a state away John stands blinking in the bright sunlight, fingering the amulet around his neck, and the only question that comes to mind is: _**Why?**_

That night: _**You hunt and kill things like us, remember, Papa?**_

Why go to all that trouble?

_**I've seen your work. I don't trust you. **_

What was the damn point?

"I don't have to explain myself to you, Singer," John growled. "You'd best be on your way."

"I'm here as a friend, John."

"Didn't ask you to come, Bobby," The absence of any real heat in John's tone made Bobby's eyes narrow. _You son-of-a-bitch. You __**knew**__. Knew I'd figure it out. Knew I'd come after you._

"Oooh," Caliym purred. She pulled her shawl around her shoulders and folded her hands in front of her chest. "I've heard all about this angst and drama. Never thought I'd actually _see_ it in the flesh."

"Shut your mouth, bitch," Sam and John snarled almost simultaneously, and Caliym smirked as she listened attentively.

"Bobby, I've gotta talk to Dean. I have to. Can't leave it the way it ended." Sam shook his head. "He's my brother, Bobby. I just…I just want him back."

"Okay Sam, so you talk to him. _Then what?_ It's Dean _and _Coyote. You can't have one without the other. You two are on a mighty slippery slope here. One day you conjure up a demon to take you to Dean. What's next? Making a deal with one to change Dean, make him the way he was before all this happened?" Bobby's eyes widened as he caught that slight flinch of Sam's shoulders.

_My God, he's been thinking about it, at least…_

"What, you couldn't drive to New Mexico like normal people, you gotta go and do _this_?" Bobby sounded amazed and repulsed at the same time. "You're afraid Coyote will see you coming and take off, drag Dean off with him. I get that. I do."

John moved a little away from Sam. Wouldn't be long now. _Watch the eyes. Mind's made up. He's gonna move…_

"You raised a couple of fine young men, John. Don't know how you did it, you old fool, but you did. You gotta trust Dean now. You don't need this demon trash." He indicated Caliym with a wave of his hand. She scowled at him and Bobby ignored her. Being ignored pissed her off. "You gotta let Dean make his own decision."

John's eyes didn't flash, didn't even flicker as he pulled his gun out. The sound of the shot plowing into the ground in front of Bobby's work boots split the night air in two, flat and ugly.

Bobby didn't move. He didn't even flinch.

"Dad?" Sam sounded shocked, then just as quickly, irritated. This was _Bobby_, after all. "What the hell are you _doing_?" He sounded like the old Sam for once. Not depressed, just as stubborn, opinionated and bossy as ever.

One of his boys was _back_, for the moment at least. The corners of John's mouth quirked upwards in a slight smile. Yeah, he was fucked up mentally, all right. It was just like old times.

John kept the gun lowered at the ground in front of Bobby's feet. He could raise it up in a snap again, if he had to. They all knew that.

"Easy, Sam," John murmured softly.

"Dad, it's Bobby…"

"I know that, son," John said serenely. "Just paying him back for pulling that shotgun on me that time. It's okay."

John tilted his head slightly towards the Impala. "Don't sell the car, you bastard. I'll kick your ass if you do. We'll be back to pick it up later."

Bobby nodded curtly. _Owe you one for this, you bastard._

John nodded back._ I expect you do._

John turned his head slightly towards Caliym, and the look he gave her was more than enough.

Caliym, John and Sam faded out in a snap of jagged dark blue hellfire. Bobby couldn't suppress the shudder that clawed its way up his spine.

_**Two**_

_**Outskirts of Two Dogs Homestead**_

_**New Mexico**_

_**That same night **_

The young green-eyed male just sat there, rocking back and forth, slowly. He was bruised, a little bloody, but that skin of his was _perfect_. He was a beauty, and so was the cat woman he cradled in his arms.

One was alive. The other was lifeless. The nyx crouched in the shadows and watched with envious eyes.

They could appreciate human beauty. They understood it, knew what it took to lure a two-legger in close enough to catch one. Small, young human meatsuits were always good, harmless-looking until it was far too late. They used females and old humans. They used everything and everyone they caught or found.

They didn't kill them. Not exactly. The nyx knew a _little_ dark magic. Not as much as the skinwalkers, but enough to get by. The victim's soul was bound to each skin. The better to mimic emotions. The better to fit in as they lured the other two-leggers into reach….

_Dean saw what happened, knew the story behind each and every skin…_

_This one…_

_Kylie Griffin, 35. Snatched from a bus stop in Flagstaff. _

_Mister, please help me, I don't understand what's going on…_

The nyx made do with what they caught, and when those skins were damaged they moved onto to the next human.

_That one…_

…_Aaron Fletcher, 42, switched to working the night shift at the plant. More money. Had more mouths to feed at home. He was so busy changing the tire on the shoulder of the road he didn't react until it was too late. They grabbed him from behind and dragged him kicking and screaming into the bushes. The last thing he saw was the full moon overhead. The last thing he thought of was his wife and kids…_

_This can't be happening. It can't be…_

Further back in the shadows, several of the nyx scratched and pulled at their ill-fitting skins, adjusted the stolen human skins over their bony arms and legs. Skin wrinkled down around their ankles like old socks. Sharp bony edges poked though thin worn facial skin, around the mouths and cheeks.

_Dottie Lambert, 16. Ran away from home and her abusive parents the month before. She was careful who she hitched a ride with. At least, she tried to be. Little old lady, somebody's mother, somebody's grandmother, driving an old battered car picked her up around midnight. Something came lunging over the back seat at Dottie as soon as the door closed. The old woman laughed and laughed, a low shrieking sound, like a hyena. _

_Oh God, please, I wanna go home…_

_All of them…_

_Christopher Sands, 18 months old. He was a quiet baby. He was quiet even then, as the thing wearing his mother's skin stood over his crib and wrapped its fingers around his throat. It laughed as Christopher's legs kicked and his lips turned blue._

_Dean knew and saw it all. _

He cradled Redd and rocked back and forth, slowly, steadily.

**Dead because of me…**

He'd failed. They'd failed. They'd lost their loved ones, and they wanted to die.

__

All because'a me…my fault…this is all my fault… 

Head down, tail between his legs, Coyote got up and turned around in place underneath the tree in the headspace. The Old Man's skin rippled underneath his fur.

Outside Dean trembled as a shudder ran through his body.

Coyote made a choked, muffled noise that might have been a sob, and the sound echoed in Dean's throat.

The nyx matriarch pushed her way out of the shadows and sniggered.

"Tattered, ragged little boy," she purred, all low and sly.

Dean stopped rocking, gradually, with slight hitching motions, like a wind up toy with a broken inner spring. He lifted his head slowly and stared at her, and she actually preened under his attention.

The nyx grinned to herself. The male she wore fit her well, looked healthier and cleaner than the rest. The skin was still relatively pinkish tan and smooth. She'd kept the clothes as clean as she could. From six feet away she could still pass as a normal human. She could even turn her eyes from her normal blank white to the original brown color. She licked her lips as she stared the young one up and down.

There wasn't any fear in those blank green eyes, but there soon would be.

"Why you gotta think so loud, huh?" she told him.

The other nyx took their clue from her when green eyes didn't move. He sat there, frozen in place as they moved towards him. The full moon slid out from behind the clouds above, bathing the hillside in bright moonlight.

They arranged themselves in a ring around him, and the ring began to close.

Twenty nyx.

Twenty skins. Twenty victims.

"The rest of them still think you're weak," the wolf had said. "They'll hunt you like a dog for the rest of your days."

Not _them_. Not _Other_.

But these will _do_, for a start.

_Time_, Dean thought as he stared at them, and his gaze went from blank to yellow and fierce. Coyote chuffed softly in acknowledgement.

_Time for payback._

_Time to spread the word. _

_Time to kill some evil sonsabitches and raise a little hell._

_You do__** not**__ know __**who**__ you are fuckin' with. _

Dean willed the illusion of Redd's body away, a shimmer of cold heat in the cool desert air. He got to his feet with a smooth preternatural quickness, and the air around him fairly crackled with force and golden energy. The sparse grass beneath his feet rippled outward in concentric waves. The matriarch took a few stumbling steps backwards, and cursed herself for showing such weakness in front of the others.

"Tricky meat," the matriarch spat, her eyes blank white. Dean laughed.

"Well, now," he drawled, and she could've sworn the ground underneath her feet rumbled as he spoke. "Are we havin' fun yet?"

"Dean." The thing mouthed his name like a curse word, a taunt. Dean's eyes narrowed. A shudder ran through that stolen skin and she dropped to all fours, limbs shifting smoothly into position. Her eyes went from blank white to amber red.

"Dean," she repeated happily. She cocked her head to one side and grinned. "They told us all about you. Led us to you. Gave us your name. Dean Michael Winchester. Eldest son of John and Mary. Brother to Sam…."

Dean snarled, deep in his throat. _Wolf taint. Skinwalker. Other…_

"Names have power. _Your power._ We know some things. We have a little juice. You're weak, little dog. _You're_ nothing. We'll take everything now._ Everything_."

They crowded all around Dean now, snarling. Some of them yelped, laughing. Fingers lengthened into claws. They grinned at him, mouths overflowing with long jagged yellow teeth.

Dean stared all around him. He smiled right back, bright and feral. "Then you'd best get to work."

Dean's eyes flared bright hot yellow. The glow blinded the ones nearest to him. They stumbled backwards to escape the heat.

He turned his face up towards the moon. Dean sang. He howled. Coyote added his voice, head thrown back, eyes closed. Two voices, slightly out of sync at first, but then as the long notes rose into the night air those two voices blended into one. They filled the empty spaces in the world with their voices. It sounded like howling, but it wasn't. Sounded like ancient words from back in the day, but it was more than that. Much more.

It was a declaration of war.

_**I am the wayward son of the First People…**_

The nyx matriarch died first.

_**God's Dog…First Artist…**_

She staggered backwards as the force of their combined voices hit her. The skin she wore rippled over her bones ---_Bobby Harrison, 23, missing since 2006 _--- and the matriarch screamed as the stolen skin dissolved and Harrison's soul, long glowing streamers of golden energy, floated into the night air.

_**You have not seen my like before or since.**_

The nyx crumbled into coarse gray sand blown about by the wind.

_**Come and get me.**_

_**I will kill you all. **_

_**You can hide in the farthest corner of hell**_

Miles away, the wolf 'shifter and the other skinwalkers huddled together in a deep dark cave. Their skins rippled with the heat of Dean and Coyote's rage. The floor of the cave became slick and sticky with blood that ran from their ears.

_**Won't matter how deep, or how far. **_

He placed Redd's body in the kiva. Her spirit was gone. They'd done something to her, and he couldn't bring her back.

_**I will hunt you down.**_

_**I will slaughter all you evil sonsabitches.**_

_**Wherever, whenever I find you. **_

Slymm was missing. He couldn't sense her _anywhere_. There was no body. _Nothing._

_Vision–flash of Thomas walking into the desert away from the house hours before, a shotgun slung lazily over one shoulder, his eyes glowing amber-red. Laughing, smiling as the Others walked and slithered and flew through the darkening air all around him._

_Bertha on her knees in town, miles away, bleeding, as the paramedics hovered around her. Keening, rocking back and forth in place as she watched Thomas go. Dean recognized one of the paramedics. It was Bear. _

_**I will find my lost people, and I will bring them home.**_

_**Three**_

He couldn't breathe, couldn't move. The place was a slaughterhouse. Bones in the corral, blood splashed on the ground.

She pushed him into the wall of the house hard, and he nearly groaned aloud as something in his back creaked painfully, almost to the breaking point.

"Daddy dearest believed those old books about me having to serve one day out of the year," Caliym said happily. Her pitch black eyes reflected the full moon overhead back up at Sam. She pushed him up the wall a little more, her right hand hooked into a claw underneath his jawline, and Sam gagged. "They were right about you Winchesters all along. You're all so much fun to play with."

"Where's…where's my dad?" Sam choked out.

"Oh, John? He's over there, Sam boy," Caliym nodded over to Sam's left. She loosened her hold just enough to allow Sam to move his head in that direction.

John Winchester lay face down in the shadows on the ground. He wasn't moving. Sam couldn't even tell if he was breathing or not.

Caliym caught the stricken look on Sam's face and smirked. "Oh, he's not dead. Not yet, anyway. After all, the man gave me a free ride topside. I didn't even have to work for it. Be a tad ungrateful to kill him outright, don't you think?"

"I'll...I'll kill you if you touch him again. You hear me? I'll kill you..." Sam gasped.

"Boring." She quirked an eyebrow at him. "Pay attention, will you?" She tightened her grip and thumped his head back against the wall once, sharply. "Hear that?"

It was howling in the distance. It was words.

Sam's eyes widened. "Dean…"

"Smart boy," Caliym nodded. "War's been declared. I'll make this quick. You won't feel it. Much. I don't have time to play with you, Sammy. Gotta see a man about a dog."

Her fingers dug deeply into his throat and the bitch kept right on smiling.

_**000**_

Figured I'd stop it right here, otherwise this chapter would have been **really really** long. . Come on now, don't be shy. Let me know what you think. One more chapter _**and**_ an epilogue in which Bobby Singer gets his two cents in.

BTW (Pop culture references):

"Time to kill some evil sonsabitches and raise a little hell." – Dean Winchester, Supernatural, The Magnificent Seven

"_You do__** not**__ know __**who**__ you are fuckin' with." – Richard Riddick (Vin Diesel), Pitch Black. _


	50. Chapter 50 Seek and Destroy

A/N: Well, kids, Dog's reached the big Five-Oh. Couldn't have done this without all your kind words and encouragement. I get a kick out of each and every review!

Dialogue paraphrased from "Wendigo" taken from Jensen Ross Ackles Fans (thank you, Aurelia). Chapter title taken from "Seek and Destroy" (Metallica). And oh yeah, I stole – ah, I mean _borrowed _some lines from the first "Batman" movie, with Michael Keaton.

I have no shame, but then ya'll knew that, right?

Disclaimer: Don't own 'em, darn it. _Wait, I don't?_

_**Dog Eat Dog**_

_**Chapter 50 – Seek and Destroy**_

_**000**_

_**Middle of Nowhere, New Mexico **_

_**That Same Night**_

They were hungry.

They stayed in the damp darkness of the burrow as long as they could. When the sun set and the shadows lengthened one of the brood moved towards the mouth of the burrow, and the rest followed. They had to eat.

The runt of the litter moved a little too slowly, a sure sign of weakness, and it squealed loudly as one of the larger ones snapped it up. It barely made a mouthful. The bigger one's silver eyes blinked reflectively in the gloom of the burrow as it chewed its litter mate up. Its spines waved lazily back and forth in the damp air. The others wanted a piece, but they knew better than to fight over it. Besides, there was plenty of food outside.

And one less mouth in here.

No great loss.

_**000**_

Sam arched his back and clawed at Cailym's fingers around his throat. She smiled and leaned forward. Sam's body bucked in her grip and she squeezed even tighter.

She wasn't quite sure _how_ he'd been able to break her hold on him, but so far it wasn't doing the kid much good. He was taller than she was, but she had his toes off the ground quite effortlessly. The long muscles of his throat worked furiously as he tried to draw air into his tortured lungs. Wouldn't be long now.

He dropped his left arm down by his side, his elbow turned slightly inward. The only thing Caliym really knew about John was that his boys were his weakness. She knew she was a demon of the High Order and Sam was just a cast-off, the last of the yellow-eyed one's orphans.

She was going to win and this was going to be _so_ easy. She could have snapped Sam's neck, but strangling the life out of the worrisome brat was much more entertaining.

Sam raised his left hand, palm up. It was like a magic trick. She heard a soft metal 'snick' as he slammed his palm against her stomach. Hard.

Caliym glanced down and barked laughter, sharp and surprised.

He stabbed me. _He stabbed me._ Huh. Stupid twit. She quirked an eyebrow at him and wagged her middle finger at him. _Can't stop a demon that way, don't you know that?_

Sam stared intently at the rip in her black lace dress. She followed his eyeline down. Thin wisps of black smoke seeped out into the night air, slowly at first, then in a torrent as the rip widened.

Caliym loosened her grip and staggered backwards, wide-eyed, as she clutched at the wound with one hand. Trails of black smoke boiled out between her fingers. She couldn't stop it, but she felt fine otherwise.

Sam stood slumped against the wall, his chest rising and falling in a more regular motion as he caught his breath. He stared at her, eyes narrowed, steady. She'd misjudged him, then. Let those puppy dog eyes mislead her in thinking he was harmless.

She stood there with her fingers pressed down over the wound and the grin she gave Sam was sly and somehow wolfish. She was a demoness of the uppermost Circle of Hell, and this shaggy puppy of a boy and his knife was a nuisance, nothing more.

She felt something pull sideways inside her body. The sensation made her stagger. Her eyes widened as she leaned forward and stared at the blade in Sam's hand. The runes inscribed in the metal glowed brightly, cold white light around the edges.

She looked down at herself and hissed, loud and low. Her skin collapsed in on itself underneath the black lace, a balloon with a low leak.

Caliym screamed out as she launched herself at Sam, her arms outstretched, her hands hooked into claws. She could still take him, take his body. Turn into smoke, seep into his skin, ram herself down his throat and fill him up, and wouldn't_ that_ be a bargaining chip to hold over the old man and the eldest son?

Sam didn't move.

She was five feet away from him, streaming black smoke into the air from her mouth and eyes, when her skin ripped open and the black smoke that came boiling out turned and twisted on itself before it faded away into nothing.

_**000**_

Dean Winchester stood motionless in the center of a whirlwind of golden light and flames that reached for the heavens. The wind and flames gently carded his short spiky hair, brushed against those ridiculously long lashes of his.

His eyes blazed yellow, and if a doctor had been able to take his pulse and temperature, if they'd tried to monitor his respiration and other vital signs at that moment he (or she) would have said that Dean Winchester was a dead man. There were no measureable signs of life. He had ceased to exist.

Dean stood easily in the gap between this reality and the next.

Coyote turned snarling towards the east, and Dean swung his attention that way.

_There's a nest in that direction. _Coyote stared fixedly in that direction, wild with grief and rage that flowed out of him into Dean and back again. _Same kinda ones jumped us before. _

Dean closed his eyes and imagined he felt Redd's slim fingers stroking lightly down the side of his face. He smiled a little at the memory of how Slymm always hung back, shy, uncertain of her place. He thought of Thomas and the way the skin around the older man's eyes crinkled when he laughed out loud. Bertha's serene smile as she watched them all patiently.

Bertha rocking and wailing as the skinwalker inside Thomas stole her husband's body.

_Can't take any of it back. Can't take the pain away. But I can kill as many of these evil sonsabitches as I possibly can. _

These weren't the ones that killed Redd. The Others took her soul, her essence, as a trophy. There was nothing of her out there to bring back. That was dark magic, something those spiny sonsabitches on the hilltop and the ones in that nest wouldn't know anything about. The only thing they knew how to do was rip and tear and eat.

And they wouldn't be doing _that _for too much longer.

_**000**_

_Might be gettin' a little too old for thi_s, John thought to himself. Climbing up the hillside was something he once would have done without much thought. Hell, he would have had Sam and Dean run an obstacle course up and down the damn thing _after_ he'd run the course himself.

He realized he was out of shape. Been a while since he'd had a real body, flesh and blood to call his very own. Hunting might be a young person's game, but he was damned if he was going to leave his boys out here to face all this alone. John stepped up alongside Sam and they both stopped short.

The top of the hill was a slaughterhouse. These damn things were so ugly it hurt to look at them. They'd been gutted. They'd been shot. The air was heavy with the smell of gunpowder and slime, wet black blood and swampy smelling greenish gore.

They raised their shotguns and fell into a standard back-to-back pattern, each man covering the others' back, John stayed in front, Sam behind.

John could hear himself, seemed like a lifetime ago, giving Dean one of the very first Marine lectures he'd ever given the boy: _Put 'em on the ground, son. Put 'em down __**hard**__ and make sure they __**never**__ get back up._

Dean had.

"Dad? You never did tell me how you found out about that knife." John went wide and Sam shadowed him. "I didn't think a blade could kill a demon."

"Heard about it while I was down under. Figured it was something that would come in handy later on, maybe." John scanned their surroundings and nodded, satisfied. It was clear. "Still don't know _why_ she told me about it."

Sam frowned. "_She?_ She who?"

"Name's Ruby." John shrugged. Blonde. Not bad to look at, of course, but she couldn't compare to Mary. Ruby always came around after Caliym had finished with him. She wiped the blood from his face, rearranged his twisted limbs, carefully tucked his intestines back into his belly before his skin knitted itself back together.

She ignored the jeers and laughter from the others. Apparently she held a low rank, half a step above the likes of him. John hadn't thought it was possible, but the blonde demoness looked almost sorrowful whenever she looked at him.

John knew the difference between a sorrowful look and one full of pity. He knew sorrow, but he _hated_ pity,and the way Ruby looked at him was anything but _that_. "She was…_different _from the rest."

Sam wanted to hear more. _Details, dude, details. _John glanced over his shoulder and quirked an eyebrow at him.

_Okay. Fine. _The puzzled look Sam gave him told John that his youngest had filed that bit of information away for the future. He was going to bring that subject up again later, John was sure of it.

The light from the firestorm down below cast flickering shadows on John's face. He heard voices, strong, determined, and on another track, howling, full-throated, deep-chested, both somehow still unmistakenly _Dean_.

"Come on, Sammy. Let's go see your brother."

_**000**_

The brood prowled out in the open now, and the two-legged one with the green eyes didn't run.

He walked right towards them and he didn't run away. They were too hungry to back off, and it was the first time they'd ever tried hunting without the mother one. None of it mattered. Here was food. This one was _meat_.

The air around the two legger flared up hot and yellow, and they hung back fearfully. They'd had a few experiences with fire, and the mother one had always been there to put herself between them and the flames. She wasn't there now, so they backed up, mewling, grumbling.

A small four-legger walked out of the flames, all yellow-eyes and sharp white teeth, its sharp ears pricked forward. The spiny ones stared, and the small furry one stared right back.

Not as much meat as the two legger, but they were hungry, and this one would do. They lunged at him, shrieking, spines snapping and waving in the air like whips.

Dean and Coyote snarled, rumbling like thunder, and leaped forward to meet them.

The spiny one in the lead died _first_.

While they were under the mother one's protection the brood just hadn't encountered much in the world that could kill them, and there _were_ such things. Bullets and knives, fire and lightning.

And when you got right down to it, there was good old fashioned tooth and claw.

_**000**_

_**Hannigan's Bar**_

_**Ten miles east of Two Dogs Homestead**_

"Aw, come on baby." He pushed her back against the alley wall, and it finally dawned on Carolyn that this was the worst idea in the history of bad ideas. She'd had one tequila shot too many, and from a distance he'd looked cute. Said his name was Snake. Said he only wanted to talk.

Yeah, right.

Now that he was right up in her face, all the tequila in the world couldn't keep that illusion alive. Carolyn looked up at him, tried to focus. Everything was swimming around, but she kept staring at his eyes. She couldn't look away. There was a buzzing sound between her ears. She couldn't think straight, and she couldn't look away.

"Let's go somewhere." He pressed against her and it felt like a damn hot water bottle or something. Too warm, too damp, too slick. This was wrong, all _wrong_…

He flipped that dirty blond hair out of his eyes and grinned. She could see her reflection in those pitch black eyes of his. His grin stretched from ear to ear, and his teeth were blinding white. Too many teeth in that mouth, and Carolyn felt her stomach drop as he cocked his head to one side and ran his fingers down her shoulder and arm. The gesture was like a housewife fingering a side of beef in the meat department at the supermarket.

He leaned in and at first she thought he was going to kiss her, but then his tongue came out and kept on coming out, long, slimy and purplish black. He flicked the forked end at her, slimed her chin in one long slow stroke, and he laughed as she jerked back, tried to jam up against that wall so hard she wanted come out the other side. Anything to escape _this._

"I won't hurt ya. _Much_," he smirked.

"_You won't hurt her at all_," someone growled smoothly, and Snake's eyes widened and he gave a startled squawk as he was grabbed from behind.

Carolyn caught a glimpse of broad shoulders and battered brown leather. Green eyes, short spiky dark blond hair.

This one had the face of an angel.

He face-planted Snake into the wall with one hand and turned to look at her. Brown Leather Jacket smiled slightly and just that slight upturn at the corners of his mouth made her weak in the knees. He nodded politely. "Evenin', ma'm."

_Good Lord, that voice…_

"You okay?" His smooth deep voice held a low note of concern.

"Uh…yeah. Yeah."

"Good." He nodded again.

Carolyn might have been a little out of it, but she glanced at those shoulders, those slim hips and well, well, this cowboy-hero was _bow-legged_.

Snake was pressed up against the wall, his boots dangling a good six inches off the ground. The Good Samaritan had him in a one handed grip, his right hand snug and tight underneath Snake's throat.

"What the _hell_, man? _What the hell?_"Snake squirmed as he tried to wriggle out. "I _got_ this one. Go find your own meat!"

The newcomer's eyes narrowed dangerously. He tilted his head slightly to one side.

The light dawned. Finally. Snake became still. "Who…who** are** you?"

"You know who I am," the pretty one rumbled. His eyes blazed yellow, and the snake man cringed. "Tell you what, dude. I want you to do me a favor. I want you to tell_ all_ your friends about me."

"You…you can't _do_ this!" Snake sounded like a child who just had his favorite toy taken away from him. "You're_ weak_. They said you were weak…"

Green Eyes jerked Snake forward. They were face to face. Nose to nose.

"_Do I look__** weak**__ to you?" _The green eyed one whispered.

Carolyn felt energy crackle and surge in the air all around the three of them. It prickled her skin, tingled the inside of her nose.

Sanke was tossed aside as casually as if he were a wad of paper. He landed a few feet away, and as he scrambled to his feet he glanced back at the two of them with wide fearful black eyes.

Carolyn could swear she saw a perfectly formed handprint underneath his throat. He'd been marked. He looked like a beaten dog as he slunk away, but she just couldn't bring herself to feel sorry for the bastard.

"I'll walk you to your car," her green-eyed angel drawled lazily as he stood beside her. "Be best if you went on home now. The freaks are out tonight. Not really safe for you t'be out here by yourself."

Carolyn's fingers shook as she pulled her car keys out of her pocket. If this man hadn't shown up she'd be dead. Or worse. She knew it in her soul. Suddenly the phrase "Fate worse than death" took on a whole new meaning.

Still, she managed to smile a little. It was weak, but it was enough, and he seemed to brighten a little when he saw her smile. "_Me?_ What about _you_?"

He smiled a little wider. He had such bright green eyes. And freckles.

"_I'm _not the one you have to worry about."

_**000**_

The same scenario played out several more times that night, in different parts of the county. Different scenes, different would-be victims. And the same results, nearly every single time.

Word began to spread among the fuglies.

It would do for a start, but it was a big world out there.

_**000**_

They were waiting for something, and at first Dean didn't get it. They were whole once more, not torn or shredded. No more pain. No more blood or fear.

They stood around smiling at him, and it made him uneasy. He never could deal with a compliment, always got what Sam called that slightly wide-eyed "deer in the headlights" look whenever someone responded to _him_. _To Dean_. Not the bad boy façade. Not the bad-ass hunter. He was more comfortable when they thought he was a freak, and didn't that prove for once and for all how screwed up in the head he really was?

_Healed, not fixed, remember?_

The newly released dead stood around Dean in a loose circle. Men, women, and children, young and old.

_If they come at me wanting a hug I am **so **outta here_, Dean thought.

They stood there watching him, and Dean decided to take the lead. Someone had to make the first move.

_You have to go_, he told them, and he wasn't even sure he'd said it out loud. _You have to cross over._

A pool of intense bright light flared into existence six feet above his head right then, soft and radiant, as good a special effect as Industrial Light and Magic could ever come up with. No heavenly choir, no angels singing, just the light slanting down to the ground. From Dean's angle it looked like a stairway.

_Huh. A stairway to heaven,_ Dean thought mildly. _Dude, could this be any more of a cliché?_

He tried to ignore the way his gut tightened up.

Coyote huffed. He sat on the ground next to Dean's feet. He shook himself from head to toe and proceeded to gnaw at the fur on his left shoulder with a look that plainly said, "I've seen this before and damn, am I bored."

He tried to ignore the way his throat tightened up.

There were people in the light.

_Sophie?_

_I've been waiting for you._

_Benjamin, time to come home._

Several of them turned to Dean before they followed their loved ones home.

…_God bless you… _

…_over, it's finally over…_

…_thank you, oh God, thank you…_

Dean nodded. He really felt he didn't deserve any gratitude; he was being polite. He stood there and watched them go, and he wondered if someone had been there waiting for his Mom.

He hoped so.

The spirits went up the stairs, surrounded by friends and family. They faded away into the light over his head.

When the time came for him to step over, finally, _permanently_, he hoped he could go _alone_. He didn't think he could stand to look up and see Sam and John standing in that bright light. He wouldn't mind seeing his Mom, Caleb, Jessica or Pastor Jim again.

_Not John. Not Sammy._ They deserved long full lives, and as long as they weren't around him there was a very good chance that was _exactly_ what would happen.

They'd get over it. They'd get over _him_. They were both stronger than he was. He knew they were.

The light faded out as the wind died down around him. Dean smiled a little as he picked up on the scents. His mind was playing tricks on him, bringing up a memory that was keyed to his sense of smell.

He shrugged. They couldn't be _here_. They_ weren't_.

Family. Blood scent. Silver and gunpowder, and that faint spicy aftershave that…

…that Dad wears…

"Dean?" a deep voice rumbled.

Coyote swung around, his ears flattened against his head. His tail bushed out and a growl rose in his throat. He pressed against Dean's right leg, and the Old Man trembled like a leaf.

Dean froze. Felt like the ground was slipping, sliding out from under his feet.

He turned around slowly, awkwardly, with none of his usual grace. He locked eyes with John, and his gaze slid past John to Sam. Dean's heart contracted almost painfully, once, twice. He couldn't take the look on Sam's face. Relief and hope, then confusion as Dean backed up. Moved_ away_ from them.

No. "Oh God, no…"

_They'll kill everything and everyone you love, Old Man. _

Dad and Sam were _here_. And if they were _here_, in this place, they would _die_. Or worse.

"Dean? Son. Please? Don't go." John's face was soft, his tone pleading. It wasn't an order, and that scared Dean even more. "We need to talk."

_**000**_

Well, it _is_ a cliffie. And it _isn't_.

That's my story and I'm sticking to it.

I had planned to post this all today as one chapter, but it is _gynormous, _so I broke it up into two sections. The second part's Chapter 51 (can you feel all the Winchester angst in the air, my brothers and sisters?) and then there's the epilogue, in which certain events are seen through the eyes of Bobby Singer.

Click on that button at the bottom of the page and do what you do best!


	51. I Will Follow You Into The Dark

A/N: Chapter title taken from "I Will Follow You Into The Dark," by Death Cab for Cutie. Dialogue from AHBL Part 2, some dialogue also based on some from Dead Man's Blood (yep, Aurelia from Jensen Ross Ackles Fans. I owe ya. Thanks.) Italics indicates thought speech.

Disclaimer: I don't own Dean, John, Sam, or Bobby. There. Ya happy?

Warning: This chapter contains extreme Winchester angst. And cussing.

_**Dog Eat Dog**_

_**Chapter 51 – I Will Follow You Into The Dark **_

_**000**_

_No._

"Dean? Son?"

_No._

Dean shook his head. He stumbled backwards as the ground seemingly shifted and moved underneath his feet. He'd been on solid ground moments before. Solid freakin' ground and like everything else, that didn't last. Nothing good ever did.

"You're not supposed to be here…" Dean hated the sound of his voice as soon as he opened his mouth. Weak, uncertain. Fucked up, just like he felt. _Just like he was._

Coyote moved low alongside him, and there was actually panic in those wide green eyes as he looked up at Dean. Dean glared down at him angrily but Coyote didn't look away.

_I didn't bring them here. I didn't. Can't you tell? Demon scent. She brought them here, not me…_

Sulfur scent and subtle perfume filled Dean's nose, underlying JohnSambloodfamily…

_I know that scent. I know her…_

Bleedthrough, shared souls…whatever, Dean was past the point of giving a damn. Memories forced their way up and out, overwhelmed his senses, blurred his sight and all he could do was stand there and blink.

They lay on scarlet silk sheets together, her body pressed into his, a perfect fit. The nip of her sharp teeth on the thin skin of his neck.

The way she smiled whenever they killed someone.

"_We took from you before," the wolf skinwalker said. "Your wife. Your child. Your family and your life…"_

He went two and two when he came back from _that_ death, two legged and two-hearted. It was easy to hate, easy not to care. Tricksters might not travel in pairs or packs, but coyotes don't do well alone.

The tricks Coyote played during that time took a decidedly lethal turn. The body counts were higher than usual.

Caliym never stopped smiling.

She carded his shoulder length sun bleached hair with her slim cold fingers. She looked into his wide green eyes and told him that she loved him. They both knew she was lying and he didn't care.

There were no hard feelings on the day when they tried to kill each other. No hard feelings, just the simple fact that the two of them could no longer exist in the same world. They knew each other too well, and that was a weakness that couldn't be tolerated. One had to go.

She didn't run. He had to give her that. She met him face to face, stood toe to toe, and she smiled, even as he kissed her for the last time and sent her back down to hell with his mouth and his hands.

Dean inhaled her scent, and John's screams rang in his ears.

_John beaten to a literal pulp, blood steaming white hot on the scorched red ground. _

_John's skin peeled back, his exposed muscles and nerves pulled tight like overstretched wire._

She was handy with knives and sharp objects. _That_ never changed.

And she never stopped smiling.

Because she knew _who_ and_ what_ John Winchester's eldest son really _was_.

_Dad…she hurt Dad…_

_I didn't know. When he…_Coyote glanced at John and looked away just as quickly._ When they took him down there, I didn't know she would…_

_Take care of your family, Dean_, that sly voice inside his head whispered. It was _his_ voice, the voice that was always so quick to point out mistakes, real or imagined. The voice never failed to tell him that he was never good enough. _That's your job. Your one job, and you can't even do that right, can you, sport?_

_Shut up. Shut the fuck up…_

Coyote's eyes went to slits as he flattened his ears back against his head. John didn't react, and neither did Sam, so Dean knew he hadn't said it out loud.

_This is us, _Dean thought flatly._ This is how screwed up we really are. _He blinked tiredly. God, he wanted to lie down. Just…lie down for a few hours. It was the thing he wanted to do the most, the one thing he _couldn't_ do.

_**000 **_

That quick flash of pain, fear and confusion on Dean's face vanished, replaced by that carefully schooled look he always had whenever he was on a hunt. Eyes slightly narrowed, face carefully blank, focused on the task ahead.

John kept his face carefully neutral as he watched Dean take three steps back. Coyote followed, moving smoothly at Dean's right side. Dean's body language changed with those few steps, from somehow clumsy and awkward to loose, fluid.

_He's puttin' on his game face, giving himself room. _John thought to himself. _Doesn't want us to crowd him. _

He didn't allow himself to realize that his boy was using his training against his own father and brother.

John held his shotgun down at his side. He didn't want to put his weapon down, on the off chance that there might be more of those things roaming around.

John hoped that gesture wouldn't be misunderstood.

It was always hard for John to tell what was going on inside his eldest son's head. When he first started hunting Dean would even hide injuries from John. He'd go into the bathroom and tend to himself. A broken finger. Cuts and bruises he'd hide underneath jeans and t shirts.

" 's nothing," Dean said with a sheepish grin once as John walked in on him taping up a couple of busted ribs. "Didn't wanna worry you, Dad."

_My God,_ John wondered on more than one occasion, _what else was the kid hiding?_

Well, he knew the answer to_ that_ one by now.

If it was hard reading Dean before, it was even harder now. That yellow glow in his eyes, the addition of Coyote to the mix…all John had to go on was his gut instinct and his heart. He knew his son. Everything had changed, and nothing had changed.

The only way John knew was to face this head on.

_**000 **_

Dean saw the past, saw John and Sam making plans. Doing the research. They left Bobby's. They summoned the bitch. And when things went south, Sam got the drop on her and took her out.

Sam killed, but Dean added it to his total. Sammy wouldn't have done any of that if it hadn't been for him. His blame. His fault.

Another step back, and the ground beneath his feet stopped moving. Another breath that made his throat hitch a little, and Dean felt himself settle. He rolled his neck slightly, and God, his shoulders hurt like a bitch, from tension, probably, but he could ignore it. He could deal.

When he spoke his voice was calm. "Still making deals with demons, huh, Dad?" Not exactly that lazy drawl he was aiming for, but it would do for now.

He ignored the startled look Sam gave him.

"I wanted to see you again, Dean," John said mildly.

"Huh. You came all this way for nothing." Dean's flat tone perfectly matched that hard glint in his eyes.

"You're my son."

"Not anymore." The yellow in Dean's eyes flared up, soft and pure yellow. Something like static electricity in the air prickled and nipped at John's skin. It rustled his hair as it moved outward in a wave, made small ripples in the grass and rocks around them.

"That's enough," Sam snarled. He shrugged off the hand John put on his shoulder. "That's your answer to everything, isn't it, Dean? Put on a show? Impress us with what a big bad fugly you are now, huh?"

Sam stepped forward and the corners of Dean's lips quirked upward into a tight smile. It didn't reach his eyes. _You wanna spar, bro'? With me? _He glanced away and shook his head. He looked at Sam and snorted. _Dude, you can't be serious. _

"Damn it, don't you dare," Sam snapped. "Don't push us away again."

"That's something you know a lot about, right, Sammy?" Dean sounded amused. "Pushing people away? Bailing out when it suits you? Doesn't feel so good when your ass is the one being left behind, now does it?"

"You never really told me _why_ you brought Dad back. You never did."

"You can't take care of yourself, Sam. You know that."

John stood there quietly, watching. Coyote was Dean's shadow, and John was pretty sure that neither of them was even aware that they tilted their heads at the same time, the same angle. Two pairs of bright green eyes skimmed over John and Sam, observing, watching.

Dean smiled, bright and somewhat bitter. "Hell, you tried to take care of me when this whole mess started, and we can see how well that whole thing turned out."

"You son-of-a-bitch." Sam bit the words out. Dean just shrugged. "You didn't bring Dad back for me. You did it for yourself."

Dean practically yawned. "Good thing you got a full ride to Stanford, dude. I coulda picked up that psychobabble crap watchin' Dr. Phil."

"What's dead should stay dead. Remember? I had to hear you bawl and whine like a damn baby about it."

Something like anger flashed in Dean's eyes. _"Don't."_ he hissed. _"Don't. I got you clear. I brought Dad back."_

Instead of yelling, Sam softened his voice. "Why, Dean? Why'd you bring Dad back?"

That wasn't the reaction Dean expected. His shoulders sagged. Anger and rage he could meet with equal force. But _this_…

"Because…" Dean stared at Sam, unfocused. "…because I could."

It was a crack in the wall. Something John and Sam could use.

"Because?"

_Damn you…Sam, please…_

"…because I'm not worth it," Dean said in a small voice.

He glanced down at Coyote. The old dog crouched there, small and brown and somehow deflated looking, his back slightly humped, head down, ears laid back, staring at the ground with his tail slightly between his legs. Coyote didn't look much like a demi-god. He looked like a plain ol' mutt who'd been kicked one time too many.

_Just like me…_

John stood there quietly, waiting. He'd take whatever abuse Dean threw at him.

"Dad," Dean croaked hoarsely. "You made a deal with the damned thing. How the hell did you think I'd feel, you making a deal with the same damned thing that killed Mom, huh?"

"Not gonna apologize for _that_." John replied calmly. "I can't. I won't. Everything I went through down there, I'd do it all over again for you. Wouldn't hesitate. That's what a father does for his children."

"You're a selfish bastard." No anger, just a simple statement of fact.

John laughed. "Yeah, I suppose that's true."

"You knew about Coyote. _You knew_. And you never told me…"

"Dean, I screwed up. I was wrong not to tell you. I've made mistakes, son. I admit that."

"You have to go," Dean raised his head, and John knew just how fucked up things had turned when Dean's face went horribly blank. Dean said softly. "You have to go. Now."

John's skin prickled almost to the point of being painful. He stood still in one place but was sliding sideways, from here to there. Same feeling he'd had before, back in Illinois before everything went to a white out and he and Bobby and Sam woke up in the church.

"Your mother sees you, Dean. You don't think so, but she does," John said quickly.

Dean stopped short, wavering, a glazed look in his eyes. _He looks tired_, John thought. No telling what hell he'd been through tonight. _I can't let up. Can't allow him to rest, not just yet._

"She'd be proud of you, Dean," John said quietly. "She always was. Always will be. Sam and I are still your family. We're not whole without you, son."

"Don't say that."

"We just want to talk to you, Dean. Talk to both of you." John looked at Coyote and the Old Man pressed into Dean's leg so hard Dean could feel his skin ripple underneath his fur. "That's all. Could you at least hear us out? You look out for Sam and me. You always have. Is it safe to talk now?"

Nothing out there. Nothing bad around, at least not now.

That sliding sideways sensation ceased, and John took that as a _yes_.

John hooked his finger around the leather cord of Dean's amulet, pulled the charm out from underneath his shirt. He nodded towards Coyote and the Old Man growled softly. "Coyote gave this to me the first night out on the road."

"He screwed up. You never should'a taken it."

"It was an invitation to look in on you, see how you were doing." John's tone was gentle. "He didn't think I'd show. He told me he didn't trust me, that he'd seen my work. He was worried I'd hurt you, Dean. Worried I hated the two of you."

"I get it," John nodded. "I do. The way I raised you, taught you to hate the things we hunt. After Mary… after your mother died evil was all I saw in the world. I wanted to kill them all. Wipe them off the face of the earth. The big difference is, they're evil. You're not."

"I've done things," Dean muttered softly.

"I just don't get you," Sam said out loud, and his voice was a mixture of sadness and confusion. "As long as I live I'll never understand what goes on in that head of yours. You got darkness inside you. Everybody does. Even when I started having visions," Sam's voice broke a little, "you stood by me. You didn't leave me, Dean. You didn't. Later on you told me what Dad said, about how you'd have to kill me if you couldn't save me. You said you'd save me if it was the last thing you'd do, and it very nearly was. Now we find out there's something special about you, and you don't want to talk about it."

Sam stepped forward slowly. "You're a good man, bro'. You don't believe it, but you are." Coyote shifted uncomfortably as Sam looked at him. "You both are. Because if you weren't, none of this would bother you."

Dean raised his head, took a long ragged exhale. "You don't wanna be around me."

John and Sam waited. And listened.

"You don't." Dean repeated dazedly. The words came tumbling out of him. "I came here after we closed the hellmouth. We almost died. They brought us back." Dean laughed weakly, but there wasn't any humor in the sound. He struggled to keep his voice calm and steady, and it was a battle that he was losing.

"Talk about a bad move, huh? The people I stayed here with… I got 'em all killed. Or fucked up. Or worse. Redd's dead. Slymm's gone. They took...they took Bertha's husband Thomas. All because of me. All because…" He faltered and stood there, breathing heavily.

"I trusted it." Dean looked up at the hillside above them, a faraway look in his eyes. "I trusted it and I shouldn't have."

"Trusted what, Dean?" Sam said gently. "What don't you trust?"

"Happiness. Good things. They don't last, Sam." Dean looked at Sam with a slightly wide-eyed expression, as though the answer was so damn obvious he was a little surprised Sam couldn't see it himself. _Dumb college boy._ "None of it lasts."

"You gotta enjoy it while you got it, dude," Sam replied.

The look on Dean's face hardened as he stepped back.

_Losing him,_ John thought. _Damn it…_

"I gotta go. I'm gonna kill the bastards that did this. Gotta clean up this mess I made," Dean said hoarsely.

"So, that's it? You just gonna leave again, huh? Just when we were gonna be a family again? You can't do this alone."

"You can't come, Sammy."

"_Fuck you_. Sammy's a chubby six year old. My name is Sam."

"Dude, what the _hell_ is wrong with you?"

"We'll come with you, son," John said calmly, and he wasn't surprised to see Dean's eyes widen. What happened next _did _surprise him.

"No. You shouldn't be here. You should be with Bobby." Dean's voice had a weird double timbre to it, two voices overlaid one on top of the other, the words slightly out of sync. "I'm trying to keep you safe."

They were together on that, then. The two of them. Hunter and trickster, speaking as one voice.

_Bobby, you old bastard,_ John thought dryly. _You were right all along._

"Demon's dead. You and Sammy got him. You're my son. My family. You don't have to do this alone."

"This isn't your fight."

"It is now. They fuck with you, they fuck with all of us."

"They're skinwalkers. _Yenaldooshi._ These sonsabitches kill their own relatives and grind the bodies up, use 'em to cast spells. They're _evil_. Darkest magic you can imagine. You gotta stay clear. I might not make it out of this alive."

"Rather die with you than live without you." Sam shrugged. "My life. My choice. That's screwed up, but that's the way it is, bro'."

"You'll die." Two voices as one, and it was the voice of a small boy. A small frightened boy who'd seen his mother burning and bleeding on the ceiling above him. "You'll both die."

"We're stronger as a family, Dean. We are, and you know it." Coyote lifted his head and stared at John warily. "He was trying to protect you when he brought me here the first time. I think the two of you have been doing that for each other these last few days. You don't have to do that any more. You have a family. You both do. You're not alone."

_Say it, you old fool. Say it or your boy's gone forever._

"I haven't been your dad for quite some time. All this time I treated you like you were a soldier, not my son. I got a second chance now, thanks to both of you. I want to try being your dad again."

John held out his hand. He looked at them both with warmth and affection. "Son, please…"

There was a moment when John wasn't sure. Time slowed down and he couldn't even remember breathing.

Dean swayed on his feet, and then he took a stumbling step forward.

Coyote balked, trembling.

"You're my sons. _All of you are._ I'm asking for a second chance."

Coyote slunk forward after a moment's hesitation, pressed tightly against the side of Dean's leg.

The glow in Dean's eyes softened. He sighed and wearily stepped into his family's arms.

_**000**_

Well, there you have it. Not my usual evil cliffie, but I figured I'd cut the boys some slack. I figured the Winchester angst deserved one chapter all by itself. After this it's more chapter and then Bobby Singer has the last word (well, _almost_ the last word).


	52. Epilogue

A/N: Bobby Singer gets psychic postcards from the Winchesters on the road. Italics indicate Bobby's visions. I also use a different verb tense. Hey, it's the very last chapter of Dog. Chapter title taken from "If You Never Say Goodbye", PM Dawn, Songs In The Key of X (X Files).

There's an extended Author's Note at the end of this chapter.

Disclaimer: Don't own 'em, but boy, I wish I did.

_**000 **_

_Legs of a calf, head of a man  
Eyes on the camera shaking everyone's hand  
Vultures circle, and smack their lips  
Sky goes black as the lightning rips  
Stars are all mute, moon without pity  
As waves of blood roll over the city  
It's not a rehearsal, or special effects  
It's the end of the story, it's what happens next_

_And I say (and I say)  
It's coming any second  
And I say, and I say  
In the blink of an eye  
And I say (and I say)  
With a bang and a whimper  
And I say it's okay  
if you never say goodbye._

_--- If You Never Say Goodbye, PM Dawn_

_Songs In the Key of X (X Files)_

_**000**_

_**Dog Eat Dog **_

_**Epilogue – If You Never Say Goodbye (Bobby's POV)**_

It doesn't take Bobby long to pick up on the pattern. The emails and phone calls came later, but the dream visions come first.

It was midnight when he finally went to bed. That much he remembers. He's on his feet now, fully dressed, blinking under the mid-morning sun. He recognizes the terrain and the mountains in the distance. Desert southwest. Arizona, New Mexico, more than likely. He'd hunted out there in the beginning, years ago.

He knows his body is still in South Dakota. This is _elsewhere_. _Elsewhen_.

'_bout time,_ Bobby grumbles to himself. _You never call, and you never write. _

It's a message, and Bobby accepts it.

He accepts it _all_.

That long battered brown leather duster Dean's wearing, the bear Dean's talking to.

It's a huge black bear one minute, standing upright on legs as thick as ancient tree trunks, a large bald black man wearing blue jeans the next.

"Take care of her for me, will ya? I owe you one," Dean says. The bear nods, and Bobby doesn't even blink.

Bear grins, bright and infectious, and claps Dean on the shoulder with one oversized hand. Dean doesn't even stagger, and that seems to please Bear even more. "I'll put it on your tab," the black dude rumbles, and he stands there staring at Dean for a moment longer.

Oh yeah. _Awkward._

Dean fidgets. He looks wary. "What?"

"I'm seein' a side of you that I haven't seen before, Old Man. Being with this kid suits you."

Dean stares at him. "Dude, we're not gonna hug, are we?"

Bear chuckles, and slaps him on the shoulder again. A little more force behind it, and this time Dean does stagger a little. Bear snorts, and Dean shakes it off.

The Navajo woman sits there on the porch swing, and Bobby notices the change in Dean's attitude as he walks up the stairs towards her. He's not the lethal hunter Bobby's gone on hunts with. He's not a demi-god, either. There's something shy, almost awkward about Dean this time, and Bobby gets it. There's a connection between her and Dean. Family. Blood ties.

Bobby gets the feeling that Dean really wants to kneel in front of her, but she won't let him do that, not with Bear around, not with John and Sam standing over there by the corral with the horses, waiting. They're dressed for the road, for the hunt, saddlebags packed with John's journal, salt and silver, duffels filled with herbs and knives, blessed wood and amulets.

John holds the reins of a huge black mare and a tall red roan colt. Sam stands there stroking the neck of his big grey gelding as he watches his brother.

Bertha stands up as Dean walks up to her, and she smiles a little as she steps into his arms. The hug is fierce and lingering, meant to last for a while, it's _I'm sorry I never meant for this to happen_ and _It's not your fault_ and _I'll bring him home, alive and safe, I promise. _It's an age-old song. It's the hunter's lament.

Dean finally breaks first, steps back and nods. He turns and he doesn't look back. Dean strides over to his father and his brother, spurs jingling, moving easily with each step. He squares his shoulders, lengthens his stride. He's back in hunting mode now; all three of them are. There's a fire in their eyes, a smoothness to their every motion.

They've got work to do.

John hands off the reins of the big black to Dean, and John, Dean, and Sam mount up easily. Bobby's never seen any of them on horseback, didn't even know they could ride before this. Dean takes point, and they head off at a slow, leisurely trot, towards the mountains, towards the open country.

No backward glances. No last words.

There are some things you _never_ say out loud in this business, and goodbye is one of them.

Bobby's alarm clock wakes him up, tinny and just as annoying as ever, and this time he cusses up a blue streak. Whatever else you might say about those Winchesters, they surely know how to make an entrance.

_**000**_

He stores the Impala in the shed out back in the yard.

His eyes water and his throat closes up a little whenever he's near that damn car.

He ignores it.

After the first few months, some mornings Bobby wakes up certain that the car's vanished during the night. That might have been John's way, but Bobby was pretty sure if Sam and Dean had anything to say about it, they'd knock on his door first, Sam all lanky and still somehow awkward, Dean all cocksure with that easy grace of his.

"Hey, Bobby. How the hell are ya?" They'd make small talk, _then_ take their leave.

Bobby wouldn't have minded seeing that yellow glint in Dean's eyes. He figures he and the Old Man have reached an understanding, let bygones be bygones. Life's too short to hold a grudge.

He washes and waxes the Impala until it shines. He runs the engine for a few minutes every day. He doesn't turn on the radio or play any of Dean's tapes. That's too much like meddling, like _taking over_ instead of _taking care_, and that's a line Bobby won't cross.

_D__on't sell the car, you bastard, _John said with a slight grin._ I'll kick your ass if you do._

_If…when_ he ever lays eyes on John Winchester again in this life, Bobby promises himself he's going to knock Big John flat on his ass.

There were other items in his house that Bobby held on to. Tamara and Isaac's duffel. Daniel Elkins' bible. They took up space in his home, but Bobby didn't mind. They were fellow hunters, damn good people, every last one of them. It was the least he could do, and he did what he could.

_**000**_

He hears the rumors, of course.

John Winchester was dead. Dean Winchester died in a little town in Illinois. Dean dying was the last straw for baby brother Sam. Sam went up to the north country and committed suicide by fugly, courtesy of a wendigo. In other stories Sam and Dean were turned into werewolves during a botched hunt down south and they spend their nights prowling the 9th ward down in New Orleans.

Ellen calls after she hears that one. "Have you …have you seen Sam or Dean lately?"

She sounds hoarse, shaky, and Bobby's surprised at how calm he sounds. Ellen's steady, reliable, one of the few people Bobby would trust to have his back. She knows how to keep her damn mouth shut, so he tells her.

All of it.

It feels good to let it out, to talk about what happened in that godforsaken little town to another living person. Ellen sounds dazed by the time Bobby finally runs out of words. She promises to drop by soon so they can talk in person.

Bobby feels a little lighter after he hangs up.

The stories flow like a river throughout the hunting community. Depending on who you talk to both Sam and Dean were dragged down to hell by demons. John went down to bring his sons topside. He bargained with the devil to release his boys, stayed down there so they could come back, but they came back wrong. Both of them did.

Bobby listens, and he doesn't say much.

_**000**_

No one makes the connection. It's like hiding in plain sight.

Bobby never hears the name Winchester connected with any of this.

Robert Plant. Dave Matthews. Steve Winwood.

Elwood MacGillicuddy. Bobby smiles a little and shakes his head when he hears that.

The more things change…

Three men, two young ones and one older man. They move a little too quickly, seem to know what other folks are thinking even before it was said. It was said these three could communicate with each other without saying a word. They have guns and knives that kill demons. The green-eyed one with the charming crooked smile was said to be able to kill with the sound of his voice and call lightning down from the sky. All three could exorcise demons and spirits with the touch of a hand.

They save people. That's the bottom line. Bad stuff happens before they arrive. Once they're on the scene, all the badness and the killing of innocents stops.

All three of them are fuglies, depending on who you talk to. Hunters with abilities? Everybody knows there's no such thing.

It's also rumored that Coyote the Trickster is back.

He's inhumanly beautiful, yellow-eyed, and charismatic. News of his return is provided by various fuglies who've been caught, and they babble out the information, try to bargain with the hunters who've trapped them just before they're killed outright or sent back to hell.

Hunters all over the country perked up when they got the news. Coyote's legendary, one of the oldest, one of the First. They'd hang that thick brown pelt of his up on the trophy wall if they could, but no one can get a handle on him. He's searching for something, someone. He hunts and he kills evil with a vengeance.

Bobby uses his best poker face when he hears that one.

_**000**_

Eleven months later, and ain't life grand.

The visions come less frequently now, enough to make him start worrying. Once or twice a week in the beginning, down to maybe twice a month at times.

What little he does see scares the crap out of him.

Flashes of sharp jagged teeth and panicked humans with guns. The air's filled with blood and fear. Civilians caught in the crossfire between Dean and Coyote, John and Sam and God knows what. Nightmare things that shift into other shapes, both animal and human. Evil that kills their own flesh and blood, family members, and laughs as bones break and blood splatters.

Bobby sees Sam, Dean and John holed up somewhere. They've gone to ground, all three pretty much beaten to hell, and Dean caught the worst of it while he protected Sam and John as always. Not that they want his protection. Sam bitches at him, as usual. That much hasn't changed.

It's a cabin somewhere in the desert, and John's stretched out on the only bed, eyes glazed, wracked with fever, calling out for Mary. Dean and Sam take turns tending to him, their eyes dulled by pain and grief.

Sam falls ill not long after. He sits jammed into a corner, his skin flushed with fever.

Dean sits on the edge of John's bed, helpless, glancing from his father to his brother. Dean looks horribly young, lost and alone. He's feverish, and his hands shake.

Bobby draws a complete blank after that.

The days were the worst. Bobby wasn't much for taking a nap in the daytime. Waste of damn time, and besides with running the yard and taking care of his dogs there was just too much to do.

He starts to dread night time, not for what he sees when he closes his eyes, but for what he _doesn't_ see. Then, just when Bobby's convinced things have gone south, and communication's cut permanently, Coyote shows up.

He keeps a distance away from Bobby. He looks like any number of coyotes who've ventured into the yard, only to be chased off by Condie or Rumsfeld2, except Coyote's twice as large as normal, twice as beautiful, and those eyes of his are wide and green, framed by ridiculously long dark eyelashes.

The Old Man's skittish. He nearly dances in place as he watches Bobby's hands and eyes.

_I make this old boy nervous,_ Bobby thinks with amazement. He stays still, keeps his hands out at his sides where Coyote can see them.

Coyote lifts his head and their eyes lock. Despite that soft yellow glow Bobby can see _Dean_.

Coyote tilts his head to one side as if he's listening to something only he can hear. Then he smirks a little, shakes his head ruefully.

_Keep your shirt on,_ he growls roughly, and that deep voice echoes inside Bobby's head. _I'm comin', all right?_

He looks at Bobby, and the smirk gets a little wider.

_They said for me to tell you we're okay. _

Bobby nods. Once.

Coyote turns around in a tight, quick circle and fades from view.

It takes Bobby a couple of seconds before he realizes that he's standing in the yard. It's broad open daylight, and he's been awake all this time.

_Son of a bitch._

_**000**_

_Dean sits his big black mare up on top of the hill, still as a statue, focused on the landscape below. John rides up next to him, trail dust speckling his boots and the legs of his red roan horse. "Well?"_

"_Down there," Dean nods. The black mare bows her neck like a warhorse, shifts her weight as she idly paws the ground with her left foreleg. _

"_Here there be dragons," Sam says quietly as he rides up on the other side of Dean. _

_Dean's all sun-bleached hair and light blond stubble. John's hair has grown out, almost to his shoulders. Sam's still shaggy, surprisingly older looking with dark stubble of his own. _

"_Yea, though we walk through the valley of the shadow of death, we shall fear no evil, for we're the meanest sonsabitches in the valley," John says clearly._

_Dean smiles and so does Sam._

_They sit there for a moment, creak of leather, salt in their saddlebags, razor sharp silver knives and special ammo loads. Death and blood and vengeance. Justice and light. Dusty blue denim and worn leather marked with protection runes painted by fingers dipped in holy water. _

_They're in their glory now. Saving people. Hunting things. _

"_It helps if you don't fall off, Sammy," Dean calls out. His eyes glow golden, soft like the morning sunrise. He clicks to the mare, and she wheels around smoothly, on a dime. Stretches out in the sun like a cat, and they're gone._

_John huffs. "You gonna let him get away with that?"_

_Sam's eyes narrow as he focuses on Dean and the mare as they pull away. "No, sir," he says smartly. He nudges the grey with his heels, and the horse leaps forward. _

_John allows Sam to get a few jumps ahead of him, then urges his red roan forward. He's not gonna let Dean get away with that, either. _

_**000**_

Another dry spell, another blank spot that stretches on for a couple of weeks.

The last dream was nothing. Wishful thinking, maybe. There was a slow, careless, dreamlike quality that made Bobby a little uneasy. It was different from the rest, not as sharp or clear. It was like crossing over, but Bobby couldn't tell, crossing over from _what _to _where_.

That dusty road winds on forever, and they walk it three abreast, Dean in the middle, John and Sam on either side of him, and all three men walk relaxed and easy.

A large black bear lumbers in the dust in front of John. Coyote trots smartly in front of Dean. And over Sam Winchester's head a large brown hawk curves and soars in the bright afternoon air.

That morning Bobby gets up and spikes two six packs of beer with holy water.

He doesn't know exactly what it all means, but you can't be too careful.

He spends the rest of the day overhauling that truck engine. He thinks about going into town to gather supplies, but thinks better of it. He wants to stay close to home that day. No particular reason.

Nothing happens.

Doesn't make a damn bit of sense, but Bobby goes to sleep that night feeling that it wasn't time. Not just yet. Just because he wants it to be, doesn't make it so.

The next day Condie and Rumsfeld2 follow him out to the truck, and both dogs whine like month old puppies until Bobby opens up the passenger side door and motions for them to jump up.

He goes into town. Just on a whim Bobby picks up four cartons of fresh blueberries and the fixin's for pie crust and such. He used to bake pies. Was damn good at it, or so he'd been told.

_You've gone Martha Stewart in your old age, old man. _

Hours later, he cuts himself a slice and sits down at the kitchen table. He takes a bite and grins a little. It's a pretty damn good piece of pie.

He stops chewing when he hears the knock on the door. No commotion from outside, no dogs barking or anything, so at first he thinks he's misheard.

He swallows when the knock repeats itself.

Shotgun's underneath the table, and he grabs it. Just in case.

He opens the door, stops and stares.

"I'll be damned," Bobby grates out, and John's grin gets a little wider. "Knew you were comin', you son of a bitch."

The crack of his fist against John Winchester's heavily stubbled jaw is mighty satisfying. John staggers a little, but he doesn't go down.

So much for knocking him flat on his ass.

Behind them, Sam skritches Condie underneath her chin, right in the sweet spot, and the damn fool dog grins like a maniac.

Sam looks up and smiles. "Hi, Bobby." He goes back to scratching Condie and Rumsfeld2 sidles over, butts his head against Sam's leg, impatient for his own turn.

"Hey, Bobby. How the hell are you?" Dean drawls warmly. He shifts his duffel over to his right shoulder. There's a slight yellow glow in his eyes. The sun's overhead, so it could be natural highlights, or it could be Coyote.

Right now Bobby doesn't give a damn.

They're here. They're home. Alive and in one piece, and that's not a bad thing in_ this_ line of work.

Not a bad thing at all.

Dean immediately spots the pie cooling on the counter, and the other one on the table. He grins, bright and genuine. "Huh. Pie. So, you gonna eat all of that?"

_**000**_

A/N: Well, that's it. Dog Eat Dog is now_ Complete_. I want to take this time to thank everyone who read and reviewed, everyone who sent me private emails, everyone who put me on their Author Alerts, Favorite Author, and Story Alerts, everyone who lurked. I met a lot of interesting and good people while I was writing this story. I had a ball, and I'm glad to know that you enjoyed reading it just as much as I enjoyed writing it. I love and appreciate every last one of you, and I will say it again, I could not have come this far this without you.

If you can, drop me a line and let me know what you think. I've got a sequel planned, in which the war against the Others is told from Coyote's POV. I'll start posting that one by the end of this week, I think.

Well, the music's started up and it's time to go. Thanks!


End file.
